


Chrysalis

by deanine



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gen, Presumed Dead, Sickfic, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanine/pseuds/deanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter never knew his father, not until the day he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conception

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: You could say there is some dubious consent in this story. I didn't realize how dubious when first writing it but on second read through... yeah. Read at your own discretion if you think that might upset you. 
> 
> Author's Notes: This story shifts back and forth in time. If you dislike shifting perspectives and non-linear stories, this is not for you. Also, I pick and choose bits of Marvel canon to modify and create my version of Peter's heritage. There is no Spartax empire involved in this story.
> 
> Revisionist history: I am aware that the walkman wasn't really launched in the US until 1980, but I'm going to play fast and loose with that.

**PART I - LIFE**

* * *

**1979 Earth**

* * *

Meredith Quill appreciated simple honesty. Her doctor told her how she would die. He didn't varnish the truth or try to give her hope. The cancer had started in her brain, deep and spidery and impossible to remove. Her doctor explained the options for therapy, everything ending in death, some more torturous than others. Deciding whether to undergo chemotherapy and radiation hadn't been hard. Why live her last months in pain just to die anyway?

No, Meredith took her death sentence, a large bottle of prescription pain killers, packed a bag, and bought a bus ticket to Atlanta. A music festival would be starting this weekend and live music might just make her feel a bit better. 

Slipping into the crowded festival world, Meredith danced with strangers, slept under the stars and tried to forget why chewing pain pills had become her new favorite hobby.

Out of the anonymous crowd a figure emerged. Tall and handsome, with light reddish blond hair, he found her among the thousands night after night. They got acquainted with their hands and bodies, touching, swirling, but never speaking. Their dance on the fourth and final night of the festival didn't end with the music. Meredith led the tall, quiet stranger back to her campsite. She had always been a good girl, careful of consequences, but a girl with six months to live, could afford to be a little reckless. 

They fell together in a tangle of limbs and lust. Every muscle in her body spasming with pleasure, Meredith knew she had to be hallucinating because her silent beau became fuzzy around the edges, glowing and growing, blinding her with his light.

She hoped this was her ending. The tumor could take her now in this perfect moment of pleasure and that would be for the best. No more pain.  
Then she heard his voice and the rest of the universe vanished in it's perfect intonations.

"I see you, Meredith Quill. I see your truth, your death eating you from within. If you're willing, I can give you time, a few years free of pain and disease."

Meredith held the being of light to her chest, his energy still pounding between her legs, eliciting waves of pleasure. Too wracked to articulate a response, she moaned and arched.

"In return you will carry my son, raise him, and let him go when I come for him. You will tell him that he is of the stars, directly descended from the ancient line. Tell him that he is a Starlord."

The light shone too bright, the pressure inside magnifying until she knew her body would tear apart. 

"Do we have an accord, Meredith Quill? You must speak your ascent or I will allow your brain to bleed and die as it is trying to do now. Will you be my vessel?"

"Yes!" Meredith screamed her answer, unable to resist the seductive light and it's mesmerizing voice. "Anything, yes."

* * *

**Greeven Asteroid Mining Camp: Pit #37129A 2015**

* * *

Peter settled at a grimy booth with three bottles of the local spirits in hand. Setting two in front of his companions, Gamora and Drax, he straddled his chair and took a tentative sip of his bottle. The liquid was thick and grey and tasted a bit like fermented sweat, typical for homemade space-miner booze. 

Gamora sniffed the liquid and curled her lip. "No thank you."

"Hey, it gets the job done," Peter said, still sipping slowly. Drax drained half his bottle in a single long draught, apparently undaunted by the taste or appearance.

"We are not here to drink. We are here to acquire defense protocols," Gamora replied tensely. "I would like to discuss how we are going to manage that. Our contract is under a time limit and our mole has asked far more than we can afford for the information we need to complete it."

"I have dealt with Onians before. I can squeeze her fleshy appendages until she is begging to give us her employer's security protocols. It would be my pleasure to do this." Drax finished his beverage and received quick permission to start Gamora's. 

"Thanks buddy, that can be plan B, but I think we can manage this without any torture of fleshy anything. You two head back to the ship, check in with Rocket and Groot, and give me a chance to negotiate one on one, with our Onian friend. If I haven't worked something out by tomorrow, we'll decide a new course of action." 

Gamora frowned, ready to argue, but she bit back the inclination. "Her name is Nere, not Onian woman." With a terse nod to Peter she tugged Drax by the elbow to his feet and then out of the bar. She had read a detailed dossier on Peter before they ever met and that dossier had been very clear on a few points. Quill had well-documented, uncanny skills at negotiation, especially with females of just about any species, especially if he could get the female to join him in an intimate indiscretion. As distasteful as Gamora found it, Peter's _pelvic sorcery_ might solve their very real problem. 

Peter got the uncomfortable impression that Gamora not only knew how he planned to get their information, but that she did not approve of his methods. He would argue with her on the topic, but he didn't exactly understand his methods enough to defend them. 

He knew that if he could gain proximity on their mark and maintain it, a natural attraction would usually emerge. Peter was aware that it wasn't the same for everyone. From what he'd been able to gather from the other Ravagers, his natural magnetism was fairly unique. It didn't matter that Peter's human appearance was not universally considered attractive. It didn't matter how repulsive he found the woman from a distance, the closer he got, his perspective would adjust to the situation. 

Peter took his half-consumed, sweat-flavored booze, and settled into the bar seat closest to Nere, a nine-foot-tall, painfully-orange alien. He didn't try to speak to her at first. He just sipped his beverage and stayed close. He could feel it start, a shift in his perception. Instead of tall and thick, she seemed delightfully sturdy. Instead of oily and florid, her skin seemed enticingly supple. When her scent shifted to a tempting spicy range, Peter knew it was time to start talking.

He chatted, he flirted, he bought her drinks. After only a few short hours, they were upstairs fumbling their way to bed, rocking together in perfect rhythm. Peter wished he had the words to explain this next part, the part that made sex perfect pleasure and sort of terrifying. In the moment of orgasm, of bodies squirming and screaming their over stimulation, Peter stopped being himself. He was Nere. He was an Onian women locked in the throes of pleasure. He was desperate for a large pay day for the security protocols of his employers, but wasn't willing to risk prison for anything but top dollar. He needed the money to free his children from their mining contracts. Their fate meant everything.

The moment ended and their bodies slipped apart. She didn't speak about the experience, women rarely did, but Peter knew without explanation that for a moment she had been him. His dreams had been hers, his needs and wants, his pettiness and his nobility. After seeing the worst and best in him, and knowing he had seen her own truths, finding an accord barely took words.

"I'll give you every credit we can afford, everything we have left, and you have my word that we'll return to help your sons. Those contracts aren't legal. They're slavery plain and simple." Peter stroked the Onian woman's face, brushing her stiff, black hair back. "Agreed?"

"Agreed." Nere calmly returned Peter's caress, carding her large fingers in his hair. "What are you?"

"Nothing special, just Peter, just a Terran."

"No, you are very special, but not mine, not for long; my special friend for the night. Promise you won't forget my sons." Nere began to rock, holding her much smaller partner to her chest. "I want your word that they will be free."

"You have it. I'll do everything in my power." Peter shifted in her tight embrace, kissing her neck and chest, working himself back into rhythm, ready to show her the truth of his promise in the same way he had learned the truth of what she really needed.

* * *

**Earth 1979**

* * *

When she rode out on a bus to Atlanta, Meredith hadn't planned to come home, not until she ran out of music festivals to chase or her disease made it impossible to enjoy them. Her original itinerary had included a stop in Savannah, Mobile, then Gulfport and finally the Jazz festival in New Orleans. But the night she spent with the stranger made of light changed everything. It was far too early to take a pregnancy test, but Meredith could swear she felt the child inside her growing, a warmth in her guts. If it was real, if she was pregnant, she needed to be home.

She sighed. Maybe it was all just a hallucination, a trick of her tumor, but if this was a progression of her cancer, the absence of pain was a nice side effect. She hadn't realized how heavy the chronic pain had become until it just wasn't there anymore. 

Meredith bounced down the steps of their local bus terminal and strode out toward the highway, not even considering calling home for a ride. Home was a five mile hike, barely far enough to stretch her legs. She still wasn't sure what to tell her parents. She had never been anything but honest with them, but the truth was so farfetched that she only half believed it had all happened herself.

Growing up in Mount Olive, Georgia was a little like growing up on an island. Everyone knew everyone and without a cinema or any other diversion to speak of, gossip had long replaced baseball as the city's pastime. Dad was a deacon at the Baptist church. Mom taught Sunday school. Their only child coming home pregnant would be big news, embarrassing news.

She could just keep it all secret, at least for a while.

All too soon, Meredith was picking her way up the gravel drive and climbing the porch steps. It wasn't hard to find her mom. She could smell cornbread baking from the porch. The screen door shrieked her arrival, and Meredith dropped her knapsack on the couch. She followed the heavenly baking smell to the kitchen where her mother stood scrubbing a pan at the sink.

"John?" she said without looking up. "Lunch will be on the table shortly. You're early."

"No he isn't." Meredith happily accepted her mother's excited chirp and slightly sudsy hug. "Missed you Mom."

"Baby girl, I thought you would be halfway to Mobile by now. Did you decide the travel wasn't worth the music? Those busses are horrible. I was going to be worrying nonstop until you made it home." Her mom shuffled her into a seat and poured a glass of iced tea. "You can have lunch with me and your daddy. Do you want a fried egg sandwich or ham or tomato?"

"Momma, I want a slice of that cornbread when it comes out and a big tomato would be heavenly." Then next few minutes passed in a pleasant blur of catching up that mostly involved her mom listing their town's latest gossip, their relatives' ailments and the Church's bible school summer activities. 

"Hey Daddy." 

John Quill wasn't a large man or a particularly small one. He was solid, tanned skin lined by weather and work and time. Meredith was hugging her dad before he had a chance to enter the kitchen properly. She loved the feel of his strong arms around her, his callused hands rubbing her back. He had already scrubbed his hands and nails removing the grime of the shop, but the machine oil smell clung to his clothes, familiar and welcome. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, eating and laughing, Meredith felt peaceful and safe. She enjoyed the moment, while it lasted anyway. 

"You want to tell us what happened? You worked all year to buy those tickets and visit those festivals. Are you okay?" he asked. "Thought the doctor said you had a sinus infection and gave you some antibiotics? Are you still having those headaches?"

"No more headaches," Meredith answered. The truth had never stuck in her throat like this. It had been different, not telling them she was dying. There was no shame in a brain tumor. Alien one night stands were a different kettle of fish entirely. "No sinus infection either. There is a better than average chance, that I'm pregnant."

Abruptly, her dad had gone red under his tan. "Was it Benny or David?" her dad asked, gruffly. It was a reasonable question. She had had exactly two serious boyfriends in her life.

"Neither. You don't know him. I didn't know him." Before Meredith could explain that bombshell, her mother wailed aloud and started sobbing. 

"My poor baby. I knew there would be trouble with you working those late shifts at the Waffle House."

Dad shoved his chair back and stood. He paced the kitchen, clenching his fists.

Meredith shook her head at her hysterical mother, practically having to shout to be heard. "No! It wasn't like that! I wasn't attacked. It was a one night stand, consensual."

If anything her dad seemed angrier with that pronouncement pacing giving way to absolute stillness. "I don't know you. My little girl doesn't do reckless, Godless things. She doesn't have one night stands." 

"Daddy." Meredith wrapped her arms around her abdomen, hunching and hugging herself. The whole truth that it had been something more than human, that it had stopped her brain tumor in exchange for her gestating its child just wouldn't come, and for the first time, Meredith wondered if the being of light had tied her tongue on the topic. "I already love him, my baby."

"I know you like that song, _All You Need Is Love_ , but you need money and a job and a home. You need a daddy for that baby. How far are you going to get working nights at the Waffle House? Community college won't be happening now. You planning to use your mother for daycare? Your mother works three days a week so that we can make the mortgage."

"I'll figure it out. Maybe you need more than love to make it, but it's a good place to start, and Daddy I love my baby. I love him so much." Meredith didn't bother wiping her tears. They cut paths on her cheeks, pooling at her chin and soaking into her t-shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut against the disapproval of her father and the silent horror of her mother.

She hadn't expected them to be happy with her news. She knew there would be a period of shocked disapproval. There was even a chance her father might ask her to move out. Knowing to expect disapproval, didn't make the reality of it any less painful. 

A familiar callused hand cupped her cheek. "Look here," her father commanded. He gently cleaned her face with a soft, faded handkerchief, then stepped back awkwardly, the anger from just a few moments earlier apparently already cooled when faced with her tears. "We'll figure it out. It's the seventies. People having babies all the time without husbands these days." 

" **We** will figure it out," Mom agreed, with a surprisingly steady voice. "I read an article about single parents in Redbook just last month. It said that having extended family for support was essential, and we have plenty of extended family. Your Aunt Evelyn would make ideal day care when I'm not available. She'll act a martyr about it, but you'll still be able to attend college if you want. You were always her favorite niece."

Clutching her daddy's handkerchief, Meredith almost started crying again. "Thank you. You're going to love him too. He's special. I can already tell."

Her mom pulled her into a tight hug. "Oh baby, of course he's special. He's part of you."


	2. Incubation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind response to chapter one!

* * *

**On Board the Milano 2015**

* * *

Some minor inconveniences and compromises are unavoidable for space travelers.  Some discomfort in the form of narrow, short bunks and the occasional smelly roommate were a given.  A successful spacer should be prepared to eat more than their fair share of preserved protein packets, dusted with emergency essential mineral powder.  (The manufacturer claimed they were flavored identically, but Peter had always preferred the orange ones.  He pretended they were savory Jello.)  In the twenty years, Peter spent as Ravager cargo, then crew, he had adjusted his expectations a bit at a time, until the deprivations of space didn't register as anything but home.

When the rash started, Peter responded as any spacer would to a dusting of red welts on his abdomen, itching and stinging him awake.  He pulled out the last jar of VD cream he had scammed out of a medic and smeared it on with a heavy hand.  When he was thirteen, Yondu had given him a short but informative talk about sex with other species, that began and ended with, wrap it up every time, but you'll still get infested with sarcoptic space mites now and again if you're having much fun at all. Then he gave Peter his first tin of multi-purpose venereal disease elimination cream. 

The itching calmed for now, Peter quietly cursed the ridiculously hairy alien, Nere, for presumptively infecting him with something thoroughly itchy. 

After smell-testing the clothes on his floor and finding them adequate, Peter dressed quickly and stepped outside in search of sustenance.  Before his recent cohabitation, Peter would have started the morning with his music cranked so high, the base would thrum through the bulk heads causing his morning meal of bright orange cubes to shimmy and shake. Instead, Peter slid his headphones into place so as not to disturb Rocket's beauty rest (hangover lie in), and let the dulcet tones of Marvin Gaye serenade his meal.

Before he had finished his bowl of emergency rations, the taller half of the crew had joined him.  Peter pulled his headphones down and dished out servings of breakfast to them.  "Bon appetite."

"Thank you," Drax replied.  He scooped up a handful of cubes, swallowing three like medicine.  "We must restock our food supplies soon.  These excrement flavored rations would not sustain a starving Kree whore."  

"They are distasteful," Gamora agreed.  "We should be less than a day out from our rendezvous point with the Devaceans.  When they pay us, we'll have the funds for something more substantial and appetizing."

"Proper meat, cooked in its own fat," Drax declared.  "We will feast."

"The protein cubes aren't that bad.  Everybody loves Jello," Peter dissented.  He popped another cube before pushing back his chair.  "I'll be in the cockpit; don't forget to save the leftovers." 

Gamora sighed, shaking her head slightly at Peter's exit.  "What exactly is Jello?"

Drax examined one of the orange cubes speculatively.  "If this is Jello, everyone does not love it."

"Agreed."

Peter had scarcely settled into his seat and cycled the navigation system online before the system started pinging, a flashing green light warned that they were approaching a preprogrammed destination.  Peter pulled up the long range scans, the Deveceans signature registering a steady approach.  "Hello money."  The pay day that steady ping signaled could only stabilize their fledgling endeavor. 

Peter knew how to survive as a Ravager, he knew the lines not to cross and the best paying jobs within those lines, but what were the rules for a Guardian of the Galaxy?  It had taken some time and experimentation to find employment that would pay enough units to keep them in fuel and food, but weren't too morally questionable for their new lofty title.  Completing their current job would officially put them far enough into the black to buy some real rations, and maybe visit a pleasure planet for a few days.

Just the thought of a pleasure planet seemed to awaken the itch that had first become noticeable a few hours ago.  He scratched absently at his chest and decided that a visit to a medic might ought to precede any pleasure planet excursions for him.  "Damn it."  The itch had spread to his back and he couldn't quite reach the prickly agony.  Abandoning any semblance of dignity, he used the nearest bulkhead's corner for a scratching aid and rubbed against it cat-style. 

"Jesus Quill, if you have fleas stay far away from me," Rocket quipped.  He peered at the main display, and rubbed his hands together expectantly.  "Finally some real units.  This respectability lark has not been terribly profitable to date.  How do you see the exchange going down today?  I have a new pulse grenade launcher that would look very intimidating."

"The Deveceans are fundamentally peaceful, and we're not waving grenade launchers in their faces." Peter paused speculatively.  "Little guns only, knives if you must."

"I'm bringing a grenade or two, maybe three.  Do you know how many 'mostly peaceful' cultures are responsible for ALMOST killing me?  And they owe us a lot of credits, enough not to trust them, even a little."  Rocket glared and crossed his arms, daring Peter to argue.

"You're right, generalizing that any race is violent or peaceful, is ridiculous, but this group is a known faction.  I've worked for and with them before, and if we don't rub them the wrong way, we could work with them again, maybe regularly."  Peter slid into the pilot's seat next to Rocket, warming to his topic. 

"The nice thing about fundamentally peaceful civilizations is that they always need more violent contractors to do their dirty work.  Cor Tang, our employer, likes contracting the Guardians of the Galaxy a lot more than a Ravager.  It sounds nicer to his fundamentally peaceful crew and bosses.  But if we waltz into our rendezvous with blood in our teeth and weapons taller than we are, then we don't look any shinier or more respectable than our mercenary counterparts."

"What are you saying, Quill?  You want me to be a fluffier, friendlier me?" Rocket curled his nose in disgust.  "All my best weapons are taller than I am!"

"You're plenty fluffy.  I just want you to keep the grenades out of sight, and the guns under ten centimeters."

"Ten centimeters?  I'll have to borrow those from you, I don't own any baby guns.  If we end up in a fight without enough firepower, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"I can live with that," Peter replied quickly.

Rocket chuckled.  "You can live with it?  I guess we'll see if any of us do, live with it that is."

"Now you're being dramatic.  No one is going to die today.  Trust me," Peter sighed.  "I trust you not to blow us up when you're inventing things from the spare parts of my ship.  That's your area of expertise.  Wheeling and dealing is my superpower.  Yondu trusted my gut feelings about employers.  It was my primary job with the Ravagers, smelling rats.  This isn't a complicated job.  Cor Tang needs his data stick, quietly and efficiently and he's going to pay us a mint for it."

In the end, after much discussion, Rocket carried only three grenades, two guns, and one concealed homemade incendiary device.  Then the Deveceans had the nerve to just pay up quietly without any muss or fuss.  If his bank account wasn't so damned replete, Rocket would have been half a mind to complain about the anticlimax of it all.

Peter raised his hands to call their attention, and Rocket smiled despite himself.  Yes, Peter made him leave behind his favorite weapons, but he had been right today, this once.  "We need fuel, food, a little time off ship to stretch our legs.  I say we head for dock at the Gateway Colonies.  They have everything we need and a nice variety of other services."

"We would get better rates on fuel back in Xandarian space," Gamora offered, "better variety of foods, better sanitation."

Peter frowned and paused scratching his arm.  "The Gateway colonies are clean-ish."

"I am Groot."  Still mostly pot-bound, Groot had recently begun venturing out and talking again.  Only standing four feet tall, he settled next to Rocket, eye to eye for a change with his furry companion.

"That's another vote for the Gateway Colonies."  Rocket chuckled.  "I like my colonies a little dirty too buddy, just not the same dirty you like."

"We will need to replenish your soil and enlarge your pot again," Drax added, his expression serious.  "If the Gateway Colonies have the best dirt, I choose them as well."

No one bothered trying to explain the various meanings of dirty to Drax.  Acquiring new dirt for Groot's pot would be simple just about anywhere, especially with Drax's farming skills to keep the soil potable to their regenerating companion.

"So, I count four in favor of the dirtiest refueling stop possible," Peter said.  "I'll set the course now."

* * *

  **Earth 1979**

* * *

Meredith was not afraid, not as her flat stomach swelled and her breasts required new adventurous cup sizes, not as the tiny life inside her kicked and grew.  On some level she knew she should be a little afraid.  An honest to God alien had sewn his seed in her.  She half expected her round stomach to start glowing in the dark, shining with some of that strange mesmerizing light, but all the baby books confirmed that her pregnancy to date had been nothing but normal.

Well, except for the fact that she should have been dead halfway through from a brain tumor, she was having a perfectly mundane pregnancy.  Now more than eight months gone, her doctor (the one who didn't know about her brain tumor) had finally ordered her to stop working.  Her blood pressure was a bit elevated, and she couldn't spend ten hours on her feet anymore, not without putting herself and her little man in danger. 

For the first time in eight months, Meredith found herself with nothing but time to fill and she was filling it with music.  She spent most of her spare time recording music directly from the radio, building tapes.  During the day, if both her parents were gone she played the music aloud, and when her parents were home she pulled out her most prized possession, her sexy, sleek, and oh so expensive Sony Walkman.  She had purchased it with a big hunk of her savings that had been earmarked for college.  Girls with brain tumors don't need college savings.  Granted, girls with alien babies could use savings, but Meredith couldn't find it in her to regret the purchase.  "Sorry baby, I didn't mean to think of you like that.  Alien baby sounds like something from a terrible movie.  Your daddy was a very handsome alien, not green or lumpy at all, and if you look at all like him, you are going to be beautiful and potentially sparkly."

Meredith stretched the earpieces of her headphones so that they fit over her round belly and turned the music up.  "The first song there is Queen, baby."

Meredith could hear her parents moving about getting ready for bed.  She opened her novel, determined to read a few pages before sleep, but she drifted away, the tinny sound of Queen belting out the chorus: _Find me somebody to love.  Find me somebody to love.  Can't anybody find me, somebody to love._

Awareness returned fuzzy but strangely bright, the faint sound of music, just prickling at her ears.  Someone was leading her by the hand, her bare feet in the dewy grass.  With only her nightdress to cover her, she didn't feel chilled.  The glowing hand leading her radiated warmth through her whole body. 

He led her straight into the shallows of their neighbor's pond.  Her feet mired down in thick, soft silt, and Meredith jerked to full awareness.  She tried to pull her hand free, and stumbled back a step.  "It's you.  Have you come for my baby?  You said I'd raise him.  You can't have him.  He's not even ready to come out."

"He is ready.  Don't you feel him coming?" he asked.

Meredith placed a hand on her belly, confirming what she had just become aware of.  Her muscles were tightening and relaxing, contracting violently.  "This should hurt," Meredith whispered.  "Having babies hurts..."

"I'm taking your pain in the same way I'm holding your other disease in stillness.  You can't give birth in a hospital.  You will bring my son into the world here.  The water will hold you and it will catch him."  The shining being took her hands and pulled her a few more reluctant steps forward, but she fought him like she hadn't bothered eight months ago. 

"No!  It's dirty and cold.  Babies need a clean place, somewhere safe and inside.  I'm going to play music in the room for him.  I've been looking for his birth song."

"There is music here Meredith.  He's made of music.  We made him of music, don't you remember?"  He pulled her out farther, the water rising past her hips and up to her breasts, her resistance melting against the onslaught of his light and his voice.  "I won't let anything happen.  The dirt will not touch him."

Meredith looked down into what should be murky brown water, rank with algae and waste, but the water was clear as crystal around her.  She could see all the way to the bottom where her feet vanished into the muddy bottom.  The glowing man eased her into a reclining position, standing behind her, supporting her head.

"Shouldn't you be catching the baby?" Meredith asked weakly, her abdomen writhing with contractions that she couldn't properly feel.

"The water will catch him, Meredith.  My touch would harm him irreparably at this young age.  It would burn him."

Of the hundreds of questions that had tormented her about this man for the past months, Meredith asked one.  "Why me?" 

"I do not take without first giving in equal measure.  You will give me my son after I have given you years of life."

"You already made that clear."  Meredith actually laughed, though it was weak and a little breathless.  "Silly man, why not another glowing lady like you?  Why have your child with an alien?" 

She thought he wouldn't answer her, he waited so long to speak, and when he did answer, it was an intimate, almost impossible to hear whisper.  "There are no ladies like me left in the universe."

"That sounds lonely."  The music, just dancing at the edge of her perception came through louder, a clear tinkling like someone playing the bells.  "Do you have a name?"

"Sometimes."  The music grew more complex, more beautiful, the lake vibrating like a speaker.  "He is coming now Meredith, and I'll have to go or my proximity could harm him.  Enjoy your years, and thank you for my son."   

There was no pain to herald her son's birth, just pressure and tightness followed by intense relief.  Meredith swam forward and scooped her newborn out of the still, clear water.  His tiny wrinkled face was barely above the water's surface before he was bawling.

Awkwardly, half-walking and half-swimming, she carried her child safely to shore.  The light remained illuminating and purifying the pond's water until Meredith stepped onto the bank, then the light faded as though it never was, the water returning to its normal murky filth.

No longer wrapped in protective light, the night's chill seemed sharp on her wet limbs.  She clutched the baby close, hunching around his tiny form, protecting him from the wind with her own body.  She didn't stop to think how she was going to explain this latest escapade to her parents.  The most important thing was getting the baby somewhere dry and warm and safe.

She thought she was in love with this child while it was growing inside her, but the reality of him in her arms was so much more powerful.  "Hold on baby, Momma is getting us home."

 


	3. Anomalies

* * *

**Gateway Colony Spaceport 2015**

* * *

The primary spaceport of the Gateway Colonies jutted out from the largest moon like a lopsided Christmas tree, each arm docking multiple vessels of varied origins, colors and shapes. The Milano's dock space was determined by her size and they directed her into one of the most distal arms. Peter didn't mind parking at the end. It meant an easier escape when there was trouble. It also meant more work to get the vessel restocked. All the vendors would try to surcharge them to cart things to the station rim. Getting things done on budget would take some finagling, but that was Peter's specialty.

The crew had decided by mutual consent to postpone restocking for a day or two while they stretched their legs, and dealt with personal business. Peter knew from experience that refueling was the only thing that could never wait, even a day. If things went sideways, you didn't want to be caught with the tank on empty. So while his crew was exploring the port, and hopefully staying out of trouble, Peter was haggling with a fuel merchant.

"Look, I know you can refuel us for ten thousand and carry a fifty percent profit. I'm willing to pay fifteen for the inconvenience of our dock, but not another unit. You can take it, or I'll have this conversation with one of your competitors."

The merchant, a short grey alien with ridiculously sharp teeth, growled. "Very well, but on my life I agree for charity." 

Peter affixed his digital signature to their agreement and finally got to start his own personal business. He merged into the flow of people following the port signs for medical assistance. The pesky rash he had picked up at their last stop, had worsened significantly over the last few days, creeping up his neck and down his limbs. The rash's origin on his chest has graduated to blisters and sores. A proper medical visit would hopefully solve the issue. Peter hadn't felt so sick since he caught Centurian Influenza and Yondu figured out he hadn't had any proper immunizations.

Grateful to see the standard yellow glow of a medical center, Peter stepped inside and into the general queue. A young woman with rather dramatic feathers checked each individual in line, scanning them with a device and sending them to different areas. She was a Shi'ar unless he missed his guess. Peter had never actually met a Shi'ar, but they had an excellent reputation for their medical outposts. When she reached him, she smiled, and began her scan and her questions.

"Welcome to the Gateway Medical Center, what is your name, species, and most recent planet or colony visited?" she asked blandly.

"Peter Quill, Terran and uh, a Greevan mining colony just outside Xandarian jurisdiction. Are you a Shi'ar, cause, wow never knew feathers could be hot quite like that?" Peter asked, flirting instead of focusing on how nervous the whole situation made him.

"Mr. Quill, this is a Shi'ar facility, and I am a Shi'ar. Follow me." The woman snapped a green bracelet on his arm and collected a single drop of blood from his finger. 

"Green, does that mean contagious, serious, not serious? You haven't been giving the other people a personal escort. Does that mean you think I can't find my own way to the right area," Peter asked, absently scratching at his forearms. "Would you say something please?"

"Mr. Quill, I am not a fully qualified doctor. I am a triage specialist. The green means you are neither a dangerous species nor a contagious one. I am escorting you straight back, because you are in serious medical condition and could advance to distressed or even critical without proper and timely intervention." The young woman stopped at a small private room and ushered her patient inside. "You have sought care in a relatively timely manner and you have chosen a better than adequate medical facility. Control your panic and wait for the doctor here. Please disrobe; the doctor will want to make a full visual inspection of your lesions. If you require a modesty covering, please use one of these." She indicated a series of flimsy robes hanging along the wall.

"Okay, so you're saying I should calm down and I'm probably going to be fine. What do I have, exactly?" Peter asked, while trying to sneak a peek at her scanning device.

"Still not a doctor, Mr. Quill," the woman said. She spared him a small smile. "Your physician will be in very soon."

Peter turned slowly in the sterile exam room, wishing he could afford to just bail on this whole process. The relentless itch in his skin, the ache in his joints, and the nausea he had been enjoying for the last two days kept him in place. He shrugged out of his coat and stripped down to the skin, what remained of it. Instead of using the modesty covering, Peter went to a small mirror in the corner for his own visual inspection. Reddish welts crept up his neck and onto his cheeks, lesions were visible all the way to his toes, and the itch was maddening. The oldest lesions on his chest no longer itched; the skin had begun to slough away in round patches coalescing into a massive open wound, an ulcer that threatened to expand over his whole body. 

Peter gently touched the raw tissue, flinching at the burning sensation. It hadn't been so bad this morning. It hadn't been nearly so bad. 

A sharp knock to the door warned Peter moments before it opened. A tall, rather austere looking hook-nosed Shi'ar man entered and inclined his head briefly. "Mr. Quill, greetings, I will be your primary care physician for your time with us. You may call me, Dr. Locu. Would you like to view my credentials prior to examination?"

"Yeah, not necessary, thanks, just please fix this while I've still got some skin," Peter said. The doctor nodded once and proceeded to poke and prod him. He took a series of painful scrapings of the ulcers, scabs and welts in their various phases. 

"Now Mr. Quill, I expect you are experiencing some gastrointestinal symptoms as well as some joint pain, correct?" Locu asked.

"That would be correct," Peter answered.

"Also, you identified yourself as Terran, but in fact you are a species hybrid. Were you aware of that condition as well?" 

"If you know the answers, can we just skip ahead to the point where you tell me what's wrong with me. I don't know my father's species or I would have told your nurse."

"Of course sir, you are experiencing a type of autoimmune disease commonly associated with species hybrids. Your body is reacting to itself, attacking itself. The reaction started with your skin but you are beginning to slough you GI lining as well as destroy the cartilage in your joints. If allowed to progress without treatment, the disease would eventually attack your major organs as well, if you survived the electrolyte imbalances and shock you are currently developing that is." The doctor patted the bed in the center of the room. "You are actually an interesting case. These illnesses usually present in infants or small children or even in utero. I've never seen this severe a form of the disease presenting for the first time in an adult." 

Another blow from his anonymous father, he'd inherited killer genes. Typical. Peter stepped forward and let the doctor position him on the reclining bed. "You can cure it though?" he asked. "I mean the Shi'ar are the biggest medical badasses in the galaxy. You've got this, right?"

The table had come to life, apparently responding to the doctor's commands into his handheld device. With barely a pinch, tubes inserted themselves into veins on his hands, in the crooks of his elbows and behind his knees. Different color fluids began to flow, orange, clear, fluorescent blue. 

"We can manage this, Mr. Quill. I am infusing a cocktail of drugs to suppress your immune system and regenerate your damaged cells. You should be back to near perfect health in a few hours, but it is not a cure, and you will have to be careful. Immune suppression is dangerous in and of itself. You should maintain as close to a sterile environment as possible and you will require follow up treatments every sixty days or so to maintain remission. Do you understand?"

"Sterile environment? I'm a spacer. Filth is part of the job and I can't be tied to a medical regime like that. It's impossible. There has to be something better. You're telling me you can't cure this?" Peter couldn't quite contain a sigh as the all consuming itch abruptly started to fade. "That feels better."

"There is a cure as you put it, but most find it untenable. There is a gene therapy process to replace one of your genetic heritages rendering you all Terran, or the other species. As you don't know anything of your father and his species is not in our database, your only option would be to become completely Terran. Such therapies would change you dramatically and you would require a compatible donor template, ideally a relative, preferably a sibling."

Peter could see the skin on his chest returning, stretching over his angry, exposed subcutis, removing the evidence of his condition. He understood without further explanation the flaw in the cure. He didn't know his father, but the absentee bastard was part of him, had probably kept him alive when he had been forced to wield an infinity stone. Who would he be if he stopped being half of himself? It wasn't like he had any siblings or family at all to serve as a donor template anyway. "Every sixty days, and a clean environment," Peter said. "How much is this treatment setting me back?"

"A clean environment is inadequate, you should strive for a near sterile environment," the Shi'ar doctor corrected. "In accordance with Shi'ar policy, your cost is determined by your adjusted gross income." He examined his pad briefly. "The total for diagnosis and treatment is currently two thousand units."

"Is that all? This might be manageable." Peter found it suddenly hard to keep his eyes open. "Doc?"

"I added a sedative to your cocktail, Mr. Quill. Sleep will only speed your regeneration. We have your dock number as filed with the station and we'll send word to your ship as to your location."

* * *

**Earth 1985**

* * *

Peter Jason Quill, with his big green eyes and reddish brown hair, was a beautiful boy. No one could meet him and not see how sweet and sensitive he was, but Meredith saw more than anyone else. She could see his light, a light like his father's but all his own. It was bright, but gentle, a yellow then red and sometimes orange glow. It peeked through his fingers or shimmered around his eyes occasionally, like his tiny body couldn't quite contain it. He soaked the people in his life with his light, leaving remnants of the glow clinging to them.

Meredith was the only one who could see the light, including little Peter himself. She'd asked him about it once, the light he left with her, and he had just looked confused. How he could be oblivious to something that was literally radiating from him, she didn't understand, but she also had no one to ask for clarity. In so many ways, she was alone in this, parenting a special child who would potentially have needs she could not anticipate.

But Peter seemed mostly happy, so she couldn't be failing him too awfully.

Then came kindergarten. It started out fine. Peter was sorted into a class with ten other children and he seemed excited every morning to go and learn and play. Until one day he balked, refusing to dress or even leave his bedroom. 

"Peter, talk to me, baby. You have to go to school and I have to go to work. What's wrong? I thought you liked school?" Meredith sat on the bed next to him, rubbing his back through the quilt he was hiding under.

"I'm too sick to go to school." Peter coughed pitifully and curled tighter under the covers.

"Peter," Meredith instilled the right tone of disappointment into the name so that he knew she doubted his story. "If you're really sick, we'll have to go to the doctor and get a shot." 

"I don't want to go to the doctor either," Peter whined. "Can't I stay home with Grandma. She doesn't work today. I can help her clean and cook instead, and she can teach me stuff when we get done."  
"Tell me why you don't want to go to school, and we'll talk about it." Meredith carefully folded back the blanket and pulled Peter into her lap. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"You'll think I'm weird, and I don't want you to," Peter whispered.

"Peter Jason, you are many things my beautiful boy, unique, smart, kind, but never weird. Tell me."

"Everyone at school thinks I'm weird. They don't want to be my friend." Peter rubbed at his eyes, very near tears. "Teacher, Ms. Jones, bought us a guinea pig, Binky, and she let us all hold her. I liked holding her at first. She was warm and soft and she made these noises, chirps, but then it made me so sad. Binky was lonely and scared and she just wanted to go home. I tried to tell teacher, but she didn't believe me and the other kids called me names at recess. Teacher made them say sorry but none of them meant it, not even Becky and she cried. I know they weren't sorry. I could tell. They think I'm weird and so does Ms. Jones." Peter had turned toward his mother, clutching her and sobbing on her shoulder halfway through his recitation. 

Peter's light was leaking from him by buckets, the same angry violet of a storm cloud, rolling and clinging to them both. Meredith could swear she actually felt her son's despair and fear that he was abnormal, that the children weren't wrong to reject him. "I'm going to tell you a story, Peter, about your daddy. I've not told anyone else in the world, but you're old enough now to keep a secret, and your daddy is my most important secret.

"When I was a little younger, before you were born, I met an angel, made out of pure light. He came down from the stars and gave me you, his only son. You aren't weird. You're my Starlord. You are so special that Ms. Jones and all those other children just can't understand. Their minds are too small."

Under his mother's ministrations and acceptance, Peter's light shifted back to one of his more normal shades, a warm contented orange. "Do I have to go to school?"

"You have to go to school so you can be smart, so that when your daddy comes back for you, he'll be very impressed with all you know. Can you go back for me?" Meredith asked.

"Yes, momma." Peter let Meredith clean his face and he let her help him get dressed, though a day earlier he had been adamant about doing it all himself. After a quick breakfast, Meredith took his hand and together they walked to the end of the driveway to wait. The clanking, old yellow school bus rolled to a stop, the doors squeaking open. Peter took a single step toward the bus before abruptly turning and wrapping his mother in a tight, knee-level hug. 

"I love you too," he said. Without giving her a chance to respond, he rushed away scampering up the bus steps. 

Meredith lingered, watching the bus disappear though she was already late for work. She couldn't be failing him, not too badly. He knew he was loved, even when she forgot to say the words. Meredith looked toward the blue sky and sighed helplessly. "If I'm doing this wrong, you need to tell me the right thing. You hear me? Don't you let me fail him cause I didn't know the right thing to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is perhaps overly expository, but how do you show a medical professional giving a summary of a diagnosis and pathogenesis without some exposition? I chose the Shi'ar for my medical professionals because they are known for advanced technology and medical science. I envision them having a network of medical centers across their corner of the galaxy with outposts into other sectors.


	4. Misconceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found writing Gamora's perspective a bit difficult and the section had to be reworked a few times. There is supposed to be the possibility of Gamora/Peter visible when squinting, but this is not a romance piece. That should never be the focus.

* * *

**Gateway Colonies 2015**

* * *

Gamora was the only person aboard the Milano capable of coherent speech when the communicator started wailing. Rocket had stumbled home hours earlier, inebriated and packing a large bundle of spare parts. He was currently passed out atop the table they most commonly used for meals. Drax was still at large, and Groot, while a lovely soul, could not be understood by the vast majority of the galaxy. So, Gamora had to decide quickly whether to stop her cybernetic maintenance or answer the line. It might be an employer with a job, or it might be Yondu throwing around threats again. It might even be one of Peter's seemingly endless gaggle of women, calling to see if he was in their system this weekend.

With a sigh, she tossed a oil-cloth over her partially disassembled left arm and used her right to activate the communicator. They couldn't afford to miss possible work. "Receiving," Gamora answered with thinly veiled annoyance. 

An older women appeared on screen, purple feathers framing her face. "Greetings, in accordance with local ordinance 575Q, this is to notify captain and crew that a passenger on your docket has been hospitalized at the Gateway Medical Center. His designation is Peter Quill and he is under the care of Dr. Locu. Do you have any questions?"

"Of course I have questions." Gamora wasn't completely surprised that Peter had spent his first day off ship visiting a doctor. It wasn't exactly a secret that he had been under the weather. That he had actually been hospitalized was a surprise. Illnesses that a Shi'ar medical facility (backwater colony hospital or not) couldn't handle in an afternoon as an outpatient were few and far between. "Is he okay?" 

The woman immediately bristled, her feathers literally lifting. "While I empathize for any distress this news has caused you, unless you are a legally designated medical contact of the patient, his illness and status are confidential."

"You contacted us. You informed us that our crewmate was there. You asked if I had any questions." Gamora frowned darkly. "I want to speak with Peter, now."

"You were only contacted due to local ordinance. If you wish to visit your crewmate, you are welcome to come to the medical center." The woman sniffed rather snootily and disconnected the communication. 

Pausing for a moment to stare at the blank screen, Gamora, reigned in her temper. She took even breaths and silently reassembled the cybernetics in her left arm. 

She wasn't startled by the bark covered hand suddenly resting on her shoulder. Her instincts were too finely honed to miss Groot's arrival at her side though he moved almost silently. He gestured toward the now blank communicator. "I am Groot."

"If you're worried about Peter, I'm sure he's fine," Gamora said. "He's at a hospital, not locked in a prison."

Groot's eyebrows rose and he stared at her imploringly. "I am Groot?"

Not for the first time, Gamora wished she could more completely understand the meaning behind those three words, though she supposed in this case she could guess well enough. "I suppose we should make sure he's recovering and not being molested by the feathered snobs. I was just putting myself back together before leaving. Do you want to come with me?"

He answered by making for the exit and the shuttle to the station proper. Gamora followed in his wake, quite pleased to see Groot moving about outside the confines of their small ship under his own power. His growth had spurted forward faster in a last few weeks, and if he continued at his current growth rate, he could be back to full size before their next job. 

Their crew might soon be entirely healthy for the first time since facing Ronan as long as Peter was not seriously ill, though what could be wrong with him was a mystery. He was relatively young, properly immunized, and he hadn't been exposed to anything the rest of them hadn't experienced. Though she supposed her knowledge of disease was theoretical at best. Thanos' children were augmented to such a degree that they didn't experience illness or even injury for more than a few moments at a time. They were healthy or dead, rarely anything in between.

Over the years she had inflicted a great deal of damage, but she'd never needed to mend it afterwards. Watching Groot's convalescence had been nothing short of a revelation, more like a rebirth, growing back into himself. She wondered how Terrans recovered from damage. She doubted it was anything like watching a Groot regenerate. It probably involved music, Gamora speculated. Peter required music at practically every turn; his little orange ear pieces never migrated off his head for overly long. She wondered what music he had chosen for his night at the hospital. Probably something peppy, Peter wasn't one to wallow.

A gaggle of giggling Seben girls boarded the shuttle three stops down the line and Gamora struggled not to roll her eyes at their noisome chatter. They were pretty in a vapid, wide-eyed way that Peter would appreciate. Knowing him, he had probably found a nurse or a fellow patient to share his music with, or even his bed. Gamora frowned, realizing that Peter had exposed himself to factors beyond the rest of the crew. She struggled with a swell of annoyance-fueled anger. If Peter's willingness to copulate with any living creature in the galaxy had resulted in this mysterious illness, Gamora might have to add a few bruises to his health chart for sheer stupidity.

"I am Groot."

Gamora realized with a start that she had been expressing her exasperation physically. She released the shuttle's armrest, now crushed and twisted. Girls with cybernetic enhancements could not afford to blindly clench things. "I'm just a bit worried," she explained lamely. She _was_ worried and somewhat angry, not that she technically had any right to judge Peter for his personal activities. She and Quill were not together, had never been together. She made it clear from almost the beginning that they could never be more than allies and crewmates. 

Peter had let her decide what they would be without comment or cajoling or complaint. Maybe he was a bit of a 'whore' as Drax would put it, but he was an excellent friend, her first friend in her post-Thanos life. Standing in front of the medical center, Gamora couldn't seem to find her anger or annoyance anymore, she just felt worry for her friend. If he was struggling with some strange Onian disease, he had acquired it helping his crew finish a job, and she had known what he intended. She let him go without even raising an objection. Why hadn't she objected? "The next time Peter decides to screw our way out of a predicament we aren't letting him do so, agreed?"

Groot gazed up at her, his expression puzzled. "I am Groot?"

"I suspect Peter acquired a disease from our contact at the mining colony when he became intimate with her in exchange for her employer's security protocols. Guardians of the Galaxy do no prostitute their friends for information, I've decided. Do you agree?"

Groot's remarkably expressive face cycled through understanding, shock, finally settling into determination. "I am Groot!"

"I'm taking that as agreement." Determined to find Peter, Gamora entered the facility, Groot at her side. They slipped easily through the crowds of people waiting for triage and care. Gamora plastered her most solicitous smile on, trying to look delicate and nonthreatening. "Pardon me. I'm here to visit a friend. His name is Peter Quill. He's a patient."

The Shi'ar were actually quite helpful to Gamora in person, ushering her straight away to her friend's room, providing Groot and herself with comfortable chairs and plenty of privacy, but no actual information was forthcoming. She had expected Peter to explain himself, but he was unconscious and she could not rouse him. She counted ten tubes snaking into various veins, blood flowing out of some, and other colorful fluids flowing through others. It looked grim and gruesome, and she couldn't make herself look at him for long, so unnaturally quiet and exposed. Vulnerable.

"He looks better than he did. The rash is gone," Gamora said. She shook her head at Groot. "Without hacking the hospital or cracking some skulls, I think we'll just have to wait for him to wake."

With her statement, Groot perked up and walked to the main wall. He accessed the public communication system and dialed out. The system prompted him to please record a message three times before he got a response from the Milano. A disgruntled, furry visage growled. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT TIME IT IS?"

"I am Groot!" He gestured toward Peter and gazed imploringly at Rocket.

"You need me to hack the local medical center? What are you even doing off the ship?" Rocket asked, coming more alert. "You're in no condition to be wandering around by yourself." Rocket kept taking but his hands were moving rapidly in the background, his eyes trained on a screen beside the one he was talking to. 

"Groot isn't alone, Rocket." Gamora walked into view of the camera. "We came to check on Peter but aren't having much luck getting information."

"Yeah, Groot said as much," Rocket replied. "I'm working on it. Give me one second. How does our fearless leader look? If he didn't head straight to a medical center on his own, I was going to drag him there tomorrow. He looked like Hell, and I'm not even going to talk to you about the smell." Rocket rubbed his hands together and grinned before resuming his rapid pecking at the keyboard. "I'm in."

"He looks better, but the persistent unconsciousness is worrisome," Gamora answered. "Have you found Peter's medical record?"

Rocket stopped typing and sat back, obviously reading. He lifted his two furry paws massaging his temples. "Stupid medical gobbledygook."

Gamora gave him a few minutes to read and digest, but couldn't hold on to her patience for long. "Rocket, what does it say?"

"It's all medical jargon." Rocket tugged at the hair on top of his head, and scowled. "But it seems to say that Peter there is allergic to himself. How the Hell do you have an allergy to yourself?"

"An allergy?" Gamora asked. "That can't be so bad. Why in all the worlds did they do this for an allergy?"

"I am Groot." Settling into one of the chairs the Shi'ar had provided, Groot took Peter's hand and sprouted a smattering of white flowers over his friend. 

"Maybe they're padding the bill?" Rocket offered. "Groot wants to stay until Peter's awake. You won't leave Groot alone, will you? He can't protect himself yet. I can be there in an hour if you want to head back."

"I'm not going anywhere." Gamora perched on the edge of the seat next to Groot and crossed her arms over her chest. Maybe it was just an allergy and maybe it was all an overreaction, but the thought of leaving Peter, unconscious and alone was untenable. "I want to stay until Peter's awake and a doctor is here. We'll check in as soon as there's any news."

Rocket nodded, his face still easily visible from the main wall. "I'll send a copy of Peter's medical file to your personal communicator, give you something to read while you're waiting. Maybe you can make more sense of it."

* * *

**Earth 1987**

* * *

The kitchen was Meredith's favorite room in her parent's house. She loved the way sun came through the windows in the morning, warming her face while she washed up. She loved the yellow linoleum and the paisley patterned hand towels hanging from the oven handle. The whole room was the architectural version of a hug, warm and familiar and inviting. The only piece missing this morning was her mother. She worked three days a week at the box factory and she usually slept in the day after a long shift.

Like a small herd of elephants set loose on Georgia, her son came barreling down the stairs and careened into the kitchen. His backpack rode low from his shoulders, stuffed to bursting with clothes and other essential supplies. "Do you think I should eat breakfast? Or do you think we'll eat on the way?"

"You and your grandpa will stop for breakfast. He usually gets biscuits at the gas station when he buys the bait. Did you pack everything I laid out? You've got your swim trunks and pocket knife?" Peter nodded excitedly. "Well then, why don't you scoot on out to the garage and help him finish packing up the rods and the tackle."

Meredith trailed well behind Peter's excited scamper. From the garage door she watched her men interact, Peter's adoring gaze following his grandpa's every move. She caught her father's eye and he smiled.

It had taken a lot of talking to get her onboard with this fishing trip. Peter was sensitive in a way her dad didn't understand. How would Peter react to murdering worms and crickets to hook and kill fish? But her father wore her down, and she had to admit the little boy who tried to fight his kindergarten class for a guinea pig's loneliness, was growing out of some of that sensitivity. Meredith hadn't seen any light leaking from her son in months, and he had all but stopped mentioning things he couldn't know. 

He was still her special Peter, her Starlord, but he seemed to be growing into a proper human boy. On some level she was relieved, but on another she worried that she had failed to cultivate some aspect of his needs and that had caused his special otherness to recede or even die. 

"You boys be safe and catch us lots of fish. Peter, you listen to your grandpa." Meredith hugged her son, and then her father.

"Stop worrying," her dad whispered before letting her go. "Load up, Pete." 

Peter needed both hands to swing the heavy door to the rust red International truck open and Meredith helped him swing the creaking door safely closed. The engine cranked with a rumbling growl, and she waved as the truck rolled away. 

Meredith massaged her temples attempting to relieve the headache that had been bothering her all morning. The promise of aspirin in the cabinet over the sink combined with the smell of bacon wafting out of the kitchen, summoned her back inside. Her mother was just dishing a second plate of eggs up. "It's the hardest part of mothering them, letting them go." Meredith's mother set aside her skillet. She wrapped an arm around her girl and squeezed. "You, are entirely too overprotective."

"I am adequately protective, thanks. What happened to you sleeping in?" Meredith asked. She popped three aspirin and settled at the kitchen table in front of the hot meal her mother had obligingly dished up. "You didn't have to fix breakfast."

"If I hadn't, would you have eaten?" she asked knowingly.

"Beside the point, Mom," Meredith sighed. She took a couple bites of egg and bacon, but the aspirin wasn't sitting well on her stomach or much helping her headache. 

"You know the last time you had a headache for two weeks straight, you had a reason. Not sure what's a worse version of morning sickness, vomiting or migraines but you had never had headaches like that before or since," her mother said. "Have you been to a doctor?"

"Did you just ask if I'm pregnant?" Meredith asked, a small smile on her face. "I'm not, by the way." Her mother's question stood stark reminder of a truth Meredith had been trying so hard not to think about. Migraines weren't a herald of her pregnancy, not the way her mother thought. They were the calling card of her tumor, a brain tumor that had been waiting to kill her for years. "I have an appointment to see the neurologist in Savannah this Thursday. Dad said he'd drive me. I must have forgotten to tell you, sorry."

"Praise the lord, you decided to ask. I don't like you driving that jalopy of yours anywhere much less Savannah, and the busses just aren't safe." Her mother ate a few more bites of breakfast in silence. "Baby, I wish you'd eat. A stiff breeze would blow you away."

Working to keep her expression calm and her smile genuine, Meredith took a few more bites of her mother's fluffy, buttery eggs, certain that another morsel of bacon would result in brain rattling vomiting. "Momma, I'm going to take a rest for a few hours, see if I can't ease this headache up before my shift. Would you save this for me? I'll finish it before I leave."

"Of course, baby." Her mother rose and kissed her forehead. "I'm glad you're going to see the doctor. Headache like this ain't normal."  
  
Meredith hugged her mom tight, just holding back a hysterical laugh.

Normal had vanished in the rear view mirror years ago.


	5. Circle the Wagons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been informed by a reliable source that Peter Quill in the Marvel Cinematic Universe is actually from Missouri. All I got from watching the movie was a vaguely southern vibe. Anyone who hates that I moved him to Georgia, sorry? I don't think it really affects the state of the nation much, but I would have stuck to canon if it had been overtly obvious to me.
> 
> This is probably pretty obvious if you've read this far, but I do not have a beta reader for this fic. Any errors are mine and I'm open to constructive criticism particularly if you spot a word substitution or grammar error. It's so easy to read over things like that when you wrote the chapter.

* * *

****

Gateway Colonies 2015

* * *

Waking up after his drug induced snooze, Peter felt good if a little fuzzy. The tubes were gone he noted without opening his eyes. When he blinked the world into focus, he expected his feathered doctor, Locu, hovering at his bedside. The small tuft of white flowers waving gently above his chest was a surprise as was the green-skinned beauty frowning down at him. "What are you guys doing here?"

"What do you think we're doing here?' Gamora asked. "We received word you were ill and we came to investigate. Finding you insensate, we couldn't exactly leave you without defenses. The receptionist was willing to escort anyone who knew your name into you room. It was abysmal security." 

Groot had plucked the flowers from the back of his hand and offered them to Peter in a bundle. Gamora sighed, adding, "I think Groot wanted to return the favor of giving you flowers since you brought him some while he was stuck in his pot."

Peter grinned. "Thanks man, I appreciate it. Hope you understand if I don't eat mine. Terrans prefer to view flowers rather than munch on them most of the time. They're hard on our digestion."

Before he could accept the bundle, the physician interceded, snatching the flowers from Groot. "Not sterile," he scolded. "Do you remember what I told you, Mr. Quill? You are in remission but you should strive to maintain a sterile environment. The nurses should not have sent visitors in without instructing them to maintain strict sterility in their contact with you."

Gamora refrained from drawing her sword on the Shi'ar doctor when he snatched Groot's flowers, barely. "Did you just insinuate that Groot's flowers are dirty?"

"They're filthy," Locu replied. He scanned the flowers with his handheld device. "There are eight potentially pathogenic bacteria and two potentially pathogenic viruses on that bundle of flowers."

"You have got to be kidding me," Peter groaned. "If I can't even touch a bouquet of flowers, how am I supposed to get back to my ship or function on that ship when I get there."

"Mr. Quill, I tell you how to remain healthy, how to manage your symptoms and prevent complications. How you apply the information I give you, is up to you." Dr. Locu pulled a vacuum-packed data stick out of his jacket and peeled it over Peter's lap, dropping it without touching it. "You medical history, treatment protocol, and invoice are all copied on the data stick. It was sterilized this morning. Your clothing were all irradiated for your protection and should be returned to your room this morning at which time you will be officially discharged. I suggest you wear your respiration assistance helmet when you leave the hospital. The station is a cesspool. Also, Mr. Quill you should plan a follow up visit for thirty days to evaluate your status, here or at a comparable facility." Dr. Locu inclined his head slightly and turned to leave.

"Wait." Gamora stepped into the physician's path, blocking his exit. "You need to explain yourself. How dangerous is this immune suppression, really? How do we manage it? Sick Hybrid Syndrome, you will explain it to me until I'm satisfied that I understand." She held her hand up, stopping the doctor from reciting Shi'ar privacy policies to her. "Give him permission to explain it to me, Peter."

"Gamora, you can let the doctor go. He already explained it to me, and I can explain it to you." Peter scrubbed his hands over his face. "Please?"

"Fine, you want to explain." Gamora did not let the doctor past her. "Peter, answer my questions. How sick are you? How do we manage this? What in all the universe is an autoimmune syndrome?" Gamora paused, and gestured helplessly. "They had a dozen tubes in you, Peter, and you wouldn't wake up."

"Look at me, I'm fine." Peter patted his healed chest, and smiled reassuringly. "My immune system has turned on half of my DNA, like a mother of an allergy. To stop my immune system from killing me, the doctor turned it off. Without an immune system, I can't fight off infections. Any old bacteria or virus is serious business to me right now. The doctor is recommending a full on, boy in the plastic bubble, sterile environment." Peter shrugged. "I do think we're going to have to clean the ship and I should probably wear my mask most of the time when I'm dealing with the germ-covered world, but it's going to be fine."

"I am Groot." Groot had stepped back all the way to the wall. He tucked his hands behind his back, obviously concerned that he had hurt Peter by touching him, holding his hand through the night.

"Dude, I swear I'm fine. I'll just need to wash my hands, a lot," Peter said.

"You don't have an immune system, and your plan to handle the situation is to wash your hands a lot and clean the ship?" Gamora asked. "Physician, is it that simple? Is this going to be sufficient?"

The doctor stared at her stone-faced. "I can't discuss this with you if the patient hasn't authorized it."

"Peter, give him permission to talk to me," Gamora demanded. "If it's so simple, the doctor will just confirm what you've said."

Peter sighed. It was obvious from the questions she'd already asked, that Gamora had at least had a look at his medical records. What was the point in denying her access to his doctor? She would just assume he was lying or minimizing the situation, and he wasn't, not really. "He can talk to you. It's fine."

"Will Peter be fine if he washes his hands sufficiently and cleans the ship?" Gamora asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"He will **die** of a secondary infection unless he maintains near sterility in his environment. If his ship can be kept sterile and he wears his mask when outside that controlled environment, he has a good chance to be fine." The doctor nodded toward the exit. "If you don't mind, I have other patients."

Gamora let the doctor step around her and out the door. "I am actually not even surprised. You are going to stay right here. When they return with your cleaned belongings, you will wash your hands, get dressed, put on your mask and wait for me to contact you." Gamora raised her hand sharply when Peter tried to interject. "Don't! If you want to pretend that you aren't that sick like an infant, then that is how I will treat you. Groot, if he tries to leave this clean room before I contact the two of you, restrain him by any means necessary." 

"Gamora?" Peter, moved to climb out of bed, completely nude, but he had never been particularly shy. "You have a better idea for managing this? I'm not going to live my life sealed in a bubble."

"No Peter, I don't have a better idea. I'm going to clean and sterilize your ridiculously filthy ship, so that maybe it doesn't kill you when you take your mask off, and you are going to stay here while I do it. Understood?" Gamora didn't wait for Peter to agree with her, instead storming away.

"Sure," Peter scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Me and Groot will just hang and wait for my clothes to come back. Maybe she'll get her anger out cleaning? It's not like I planned this or caused it."

"I am Groot." 

Peter spun to look at his nearly five foot tall friend. It was the strangest feeling radiating from him. He had said I am Groot, just like always, but there was another layer--not words, an idea. _Gamora isn't angry; she is afraid._

"I'm afraid too," Peter replied, feeling a little silly.

Groot took a single step closer, cocking his head to the side. "I am Groot." 

It was wrong to just give the waving layer of understanding words, but that was how Peter interpreted concepts so he puzzled at the wave of excited, pleased comprehension until he could give it language. _You understand?_

"Weird, but I think I understand you, sort of. Is it normal for people to start understanding you if you hang out together long enough?" Peter paced closer to his friend. "Rocket could tell me if I have it right. You could tell me. Blink twice if I've got it right."

Groot blinked twice, slowly and deliberately. 

"I am Groot."

Peter chewed his lip, confused at the rush of color, sound, and idea that came with that tiny utterance. This felt like a barrage of communication compared to the last two phrases. It took him a few long minutes to decide what it meant, and it was odd. "Wait, what, no I'm not." Peter looked at his hands, chest, then legs before wandering over to the mirror and shaking his head again. 

"I am not glowing."

* * *

**Earth 1987**

* * *

Sitting in the cab of her dad's truck, Meredith leaned her head against the window and let the radio's music fill the space between them. She had asked her father for a ride to the doctor, not because her car was unsafe or because she didn't want to take the bus, but because she wanted to talk, to tell her father the entire crazy truth. But it was so hard to start the conversation. Her dad turned on the radio when they were only a few miles down the road, and Meredith had not been able to make herself turn it off.

The miles slipped away to the steady stream of old time rock and roll until the music was gone, the truck was parked, and it was time to go inside. Her dad popped his door open and hopped down, but Meredith didn't move. Her dad looked back, his expression a bit puzzled. "We're going to be late if you don't get moving."

"There is something I need to tell you first." Meredith patted the truck seat and waited for her dad to climb back in. "When I came out here nearly ten years ago, the neurologist didn't diagnose my pregnancy. He found a tumor and he gave me less than six months to live."

Her dad frowned and scooted closer to her. "Well it sounds like you need a new doctor. He misdiagnosed you."

"He really didn't." Meredith wiped her eyes, unsure when she had started to cry. "I knew I was sick before I left for Atlanta. Sleeping with Peter's dad, I wasn't worried about consequences because my life was over. But Peter's daddy, he was an angel or an alien. He wasn't normal. He said he could make my tumor leave me be for a while if I'd have his son. Daddy, he was so bright so potent. I didn't have a choice, but I'm not upset that I agreed. He gave me time and he gave me Peter, and I'm so happy to have had both."

Meredith hated the look on her dad's face. He was looking at her like she was crazy. "Are you joking? Meredith, you didn't have an alien's baby, or an angel's for God's sake. Peter is a little odd, but there is nothing wrong with him that some more time with his grandpa won't cure. Let's go talk to this doctor and find out what's misfiring up top to give you those headaches, and to confuse you so much. All right girl?"

"Yeah." Meredith wiped her eyes and managed a weak smile. "Let's talk to the doctor and let him scan my head again. Medicine has come a long way in the last decade, right? They might be able to help." She and her father walked together to the shiny glass doors, but Meredith stopped her father opening them. "Dad, please promise me that you'll take care of Peter until his Dad makes it back for him if I can't. I know you don't believe me about his daddy, but he is special."

"Meredith Quill, I'm going to try not to be offended since you're spewing all kinds of craziness today, but your son will always have a home as long as you have family, and you have plenty of family that loves you and Peter." Her dad wrapped an arm around her and guided her forward into the cool doctor's office. "You're going to be fine."

* * *

****

Gateway Colonies 2015

* * *

When Peter returned to the ship, he expected the interior to be sparkling with cleanliness and smelling of some astringent cleaner. But it looked the same, dirty, greasy, a wee bit smelly. Just to be safe, Peter left his mask in place. He might have to clean the place himself. Gamora had asked him to come home, indicating it was safe, but she hadn't explicitly said.

Groot stopped short of patting Peter's shoulder, smiling and waving before slipping away to return to his pot. The regenerating tree couldn't stay away from his pot for too long, and he had spent an entire night and day at the hospital with Peter.

"Do I even own disinfectant?" Peter pondered.

Rocket popped up from a maintenance shaft. "Calm down, Hummie. You can take your mask off. The ship is sterile. It's still a little dirty, but dirt isn't dangerous if it's been rendered inert." Rocket pointed to a set of new mechanics over the doors. "Gamora explained the seriousness of your condition and what you needed, so I added some medical grade sterilization lasers to all the living areas. You're welcome." 

Peter disengaged his mask and took a deep breath. "Home sweet home. Thanks, Rocket."

Wearing a pair of dark tinted goggles, Gamora stepped down from the cockpit. "The sterilization cycle is running normally up there from what I can tell. The scanner didn't register any viable biological materials."

"You guys set this up in a couple of hours? I'm impressed," Peter said. 

"Don't get too excited yet. We went from financially stable to ten thousand units in debt in a couple of hours. Gamora wouldn't let me steal the hardware," Rocket said. "She seemed to think it was important that we had proper product support or some such nonsense." 

"This isn't one of your cobbled together bombs. This is life or death." Gamora thrust a circular gadget at Peter with a gloved hand. "It's clean and so am I. You can use that to scan anything in your environment to see if it has microorganisms. It's very important that you scan your food."

"The doctor recommended this?" Peter fiddled with the device until it started giving him readings about his environment. "Wow, the dirt is clean."

"Of course it's clean," Gamora snapped. "Did you think I would have summoned you home before it was safe?"

Peter tried not to frown at Gamora's continuing anger. He couldn't see the fear Groot had purported at the hospital, assuming he had really understood anything Groot had said. Hallucinating Groot speech might just be another fun and exciting side effect of Sick Hybrid Syndrome. 

A savory smell that had been there since Peter stepped aboard had grown more acute. The door to the galley flew open, and Drax emerged with a large steaming pot. "Friends, gather round, I have prepared knot stew, a delicacy sure to give us all strength and health."

Peter couldn't help noticing how Drax emphasized the word health or the way he stared his way when he said it. "Knot stew, that sounds delicious, thanks buddy."

"You are quite welcome, friend Quill. Here, this bowl is for you." He dished out a large, steaming bowl of brown liquid with unidentifiable lumps floating through it. 

Peter breathed deep, not disturbed by the food's appearance. It smelled amazing, a little like beef stew. He dutifully scanned the bowl with his handheld device before digging in. "This tastes wonderful," Peter said after a few mouthfuls. He spotted Gamora's skeptical expression. "Just eat it. Do not ask what's in it. Do not think about it too much. I can't tell you how many perfectly tasty meals I've had ruined by finding out what's in it."

"It's this or the emergency ratios, considering the state of our finances." Rocket was halfway through his bowl. "I'll take mystery stew every time." 

The meal continued in relative peace and silence. No one looked at him askance or accused him of depleting their funds, but Peter felt acutely responsible for their sudden insolvency, and he wanted to fix it. "I have part of a plan, thirty percent of one at least." 

"It is far more of a plan than you usually present," Drax offered, all smiles. 

"Thanks, I think. We still need to bust up that mining ring for, Nere. We gave her our word," Peter said, "I know we planned to do it for charity and we can't afford altruism right now, but before you shoot me down, I think we could get paid for it. They operate just outside Xandarian jurisdiction. We contact Nova and suggest a contract to clean up the operation that they can't legally resolve. They can keep their hands mostly clean and remove a band of criminals that are costing them a lot of units."

"And how are we going to shut this mining ring down, oh brilliant leader, once we have a contract to do so?" Rocket asked.

"I told you, it was thirty percent of a plan. I'm open to ideas on the other seventy." 

Rocket laughed and rubbed his hands together, his smile showing all his teeth. "You get on the line with Nova and start negotiating. I'll start working on the fun part of the plan. And don't even think about banning my pulse grenade launcher today. The Furious Flinger is having her inaugural run."

"This is probably the right job for pulse grenade launchers," Peter replied. "Anyone opposed to this course of action?"

Gamora rose, her eyes bright and back straight, practically spoiling for a fight. "I'm willing to agree to this under one condition. Peter doesn't leave the ship for the duration."


	6. Hell Is

* * *

**The Milano 2015**

* * *

Sitting alone in the cockpit of the Milano, Peter tried not to think very hard about his situation, trapped more thoroughly than he had ever been in any prison. Gamora and Drax and Rocket were out there, working, risking their lives and watching each other's backs. His job was to focus on the glowing map, watch for evidence that they had been discovered and be prepared to blast them to safety if and when necessary.

Being relegated to support staff stung, but it wasn't unreasonable. If he took a stray blade or even a punch just wrong he could be exposed to a bacterium that might kill him before he could seek medical care. Trying to watch out for him would only distract the other guardians and make their job more difficult. So Peter hadn't argued his status as indefinite bench warmer. 

Never mind that he had been running missions with the Ravagers since he was ten years old, that he couldn't imagine a life without that knife's edge of danger. What would Yondu say about his medical condition? Peter smirked and scrubbed his hands together. Yondu would never have visited a fancy Shi'ar medical facility. He would have drug him in to see Mattai, their usual medic and she would have figured something out, something better than shutting off his immune system or replacing his genes.

By the time Rocket, Drax, and Gamora were back, slightly laser scorched but victorious, Peter had programmed in their next destination. He didn't ask for a vote. He didn't ask permission. He set autopilot and strolled down to discuss the mission.

"Quill, you should have seen it, my genius at work. Call Nova and collect our credits. That mining ship will be blundering over their border in the next two standard days after the modifications I made to her guidance system, guaranteed." Rocket climbed into a chair and started disassembling his rather impressive weapon. "Didn't get to use my new toy, but hey, everything went according to plan."

"According to plan included this?" Gamora gestured to her singed hair. The purple ombre tips had been burned completely away from the left side of her head, leaving that side with a few inches of wavy dark hair. 

"Cosmetic damage," Rocket scoffed.

Before Gamora could round on Rocket properly, Peter had slipped into the line of fire. "I think it looks badass, very punk rock. You should keep it asymmetrical."

Almost overbalancing in her effort to not accidentally touch Peter, Gamora took several steps back until she was against the wall. "Peter, you need to be careful. We haven't been decontaminated."

"Sorry." Peter raised his hands in surrender. "But seriously, my skin is still intact. I wasn't in danger of licking you. A casual touch isn't going to kill me, people."

"A touch can lead to contamination that finds its way into your mouth or eyes or other mucus membrane." Gamora stepped forward, careful to keep a bit of distance from Peter and settled at the table next to Rocket. "It's best to stay as sterile as you can."

"Yes mother," Peter quipped.

"Peter, Gamora is far too young and green to be your mother," Drax said patiently.

"You're right, Drax. Would you tell her to stop acting like my mother?" Peter asked.

"Don't humor them, big guy. They're both acting juvenile." Rocket continued methodically cleaning his weapon. "Where are we headed next, anyway? Nova was generous with the bounty. We can afford to take a few days off, finish our resupply properly maybe?"

"About that, hope you all don't mind, but I need to make a personal stop or two. First, I'm getting a second opinion from a medic I trust on managing my condition." Peter gestured vaguely, purposefully not using the syndrome's name. "If she agrees with what the Shi'ar doctor said, then I'm going to need to stop by Terra. There's a gene therapy song and dance they can do to make me all Terran so my immune system will go back to behaving. After a week of being the boy in the spacecraft bubble, I've decided to give up my ancient unknown genetic heritage. I'll need a compatible human donor, so hopefully I have a cousin who's willing to share their genes for a good cause."

"Ah yes, the planet of outlaws. I look forward to the visit." Drax brandished his favorite blade, a wicked curved implement covered in black blood. "Please excuse me, my blade was dulled hacking through the hide of a Reptar and it must be honed and made ready for Terra."

"We should have went to Terra immediately. It is the far more reasonable treatment," Gamora said. "The gene therapy is a cure."

"Reasonable? Sounds freaking drastic to me, but I guess it's better than becoming the cleanest hermit in the history of interstellar travel." Rocket was most of the way through reassembling the grenade launcher. He snapped the last bolt in place and jumped down, waving to them. "Just don't get us arrested if we go to Terra. It's under interdict, ya' know."

"He's not wrong. It is drastic. After the gene therapy, I won't be me anymore," Peter said. "The only special thing about me will be deleted."

"Don't be foolish," Gamora scolded. "Our flesh is not who we are. My flesh is more cybernetic than living tissue, but I'm not a machine. My spirit is still fundamentally me."

Almost against his will Peter smiled. "Fine, I'll stop being foolish if you stop panicking every time I take two steps. I'm the one with a condition, and it's been fine so far." Peter placed his hand on the table palm up and shot Gamora a timid, questioning look. "I promise I'll wash my hands after."

Gamora sighed but she gripped Peter's hand. Their Terran was a remarkably tactile creature, always touching, squeezing, hugging. The last week with everyone studiously avoiding every possible casual contact, had undoubtedly been hard on him. "How far to this medic of yours?"

Peter rested his face on his free fist and his eyes drifted shut, visibly more relaxed with a hand to hold. "Not too far, at all." 

"And you believe this medic will have a better solution for your illness?" Gamora asked. 

"I hope so. She got me through some crazy things growing up. If she says the fancy Shi'ar doctor got everything right and she can't think of a more palatable solution, then I'll accept my fate, gene therapy. Maybe I'll come out the other side short and fat with no hair and bad skin, but you just said, my flesh doesn't matter, so I'll be fine." Peter grinned, meeting Gamora's eyes. He squeezed her hand three quick times before letting go. "I'm going to wash up and sterilize my bedroom."

"Wait." Gamora followed Peter to the door, suddenly overwhelmed with memories of another time and another family. When she was a girl, before bedtime, her mother would kiss her over each eye and say the sacred prayer that she would wake the next day. "Close your eyes." Gamora gently directed Peter's head down so that she could brush her lips over the most delicate skin of his face. "Sacre hererou neevodi."

Peter didn't ask her what she was doing or what it meant. "Thanks."

"Forgive me, for being overbearing about your illness. This crew, this family, is the only good thing I've know in so long, that your current vulnerability makes me..."

"Bat-shit crazy? Yeah, I get that. It's driving me crazy too."

* * *

**Earth 1988**

* * *

John Quill had been asked to weather quite a few storms in his life, the draught that cost his father their farm, his time in the army that almost cost him his wife, Betsy. Listening to the doctors discuss his only child's incurable, impossible tumor, that should have already killed her a thousand times in the last ten years was a unique Hell on Earth.

Meredith endured it quietly, stoically. At first when it was just talk and statistics, she seemed almost hopeful, determined to be in the five percent that survived. But as the weeks wore into months and her body wasted away under the relentless onslaught of radiation and chemotherapy until she couldn't even walk, her optimism faded into weary determination. Every scan reported the same thing, the tumor was growing, resisting all efforts to slow it.

The doctors had stopped talking about hope and tiny statistical possibilities, but they still came with their cocktails of poison into her PICC line. When the doctor asked her if she wanted to stop, that there was little to no hope of meaningful recovery. Meredith had insisted on soldering on, for Peter was her only explanation.

John sat at his breakfast table, eating a bowl of sticky instant oatmeal without really tasting it, thankful for his time away from the death-watch of his child's hospital room. Betsy had set up camp at the hospital with Meredith, not leaving for anything, determined to spend every moment possible with her. John had other duties to tend. He had to keep working to pay the insurance and to make sure Peter got up and ate and went to school. After work and school they would go to the hospital together. It was their ritual for the past few months. 

Spending time with Peter, John tried to teach him by example, to show him how a man handled the storms of life. A man worked. A man protected his family. And when something like cancer happened that a man couldn't do anything to stop, he stayed close and present and kept everything together that he could control. "You going to eat that cereal? It's turning to mush there."

"Not real hungry." Peter stirred the cereal half heartedly and shrugged. John didn't recognize the cartoon character on his grandson's t-shirt, but the clothes were clean and the kid in them was relatively so. 

Looking at his own half-eaten oatmeal, John sighed. He slapped two dollars on the table for Peter's lunch money. "Eat something at lunch and we'll not worry about breakfast. Rinse your bowl, Pete."  
  
John cleaned his own dish, careful not to leave a mess in his wife's kitchen. In the rare moments she had at home, he didn't want her worrying and cleaning. "You got your books and your homework?" John placed his cleaned bowl in the drain next to Peter's. "I won't be able to leave the machine shop until seven. You ride the bus home with your cousins Lucy and Russell. Get your homework done and you won't have to work on it at the hospital."

"Okay. You think Mom's feeling better today?" Peter asked. "She looked a little better yesterday, don't you think?"

Meredith had looked like a skeleton with thin, paper-skin stretched over her bones yesterday. She looked like death, but John wasn't quite sure how to handle a hopeful eight year old. "You want to ride to school with me or you want to ride the bus?" John asked instead.

Peter didn't have to think about it, he just headed for the pickup truck in the garage. John grabbed his sack lunch and followed. They usually drove in near silence, but Peter kept casting sidelong glances across the truck cab, obviously working himself up to a statement or a question. "Grandpa, do you think my dad knows mom's sick?" 

"I doubt it, Pete. Your dad hasn't been around since before you were born." He squeezed Peter's knee. "Why on Earth are you asking about him?"

"I don't know," Peter said. "Do you think he would want to know? Should we let him know?"

John squeezed his steering wheel tight, backed into another conversational no man's land. There wasn't a polite way to say that they didn't know enough about Peter's dad to call him if they were so inclined. "Peter, that's adult business. Don't bring it up to your mother or your grandmother."

Peter pulled an envelope out of his bag, worrying it with his hands. "I don't know his address, but I wrote this for him, for my dad. Can you get it to him? I won't bother my mom or grandma about it. I promise."  
  
"Pete, leave it with me and I'll try, okay?" John took the well worn letter and set it on the dashboard. From the expression on Peter's face, he considered the letter as good as delivered. "You focus on school and listen to your Aunt Rita this evening until I come for you."

John pulled into the school's drop off lane, waiting his turn to unload Peter and his impossible to encourage hope and his impossible to answer questions. Their goodbye was silent, an exchange of waves, that left John feeling woefully unprepared for what was coming. Meredith's death was inevitable, and everyone knew it except for Peter.

* * *

**Sight Line Outpost 2015**

* * *

Gamora wasn't sure what she expected of Peter's trusted medic friend, but her office did not encourage confidence or lend credibility. Granted, the rusty storefront fit well with the other junker establishments along the city's main street, but medical facilities usually as least appeared more put together.

His mask securely in place, Peter strode forward, unconcerned by the dilapidated appearance. She restrained herself from telling him to keep his mask in place. Peter hadn't wanted any of them here with him, but had relented to her accompaniment only if she promised not to harass him about basic precautions. 

An impossibly thin, black-skinned alien greeted them at the entry. It scanned each of them with what looked like a biomedical device and waved both of them forward.

"Could you let Mattei know that it's Peter Quill here to see her?" Peter asked, amiably.

While she couldn't see his face, Gamora imagined she heard a smile in the question. She had seen variations of Peter greeting his friends, contacts, and lovers on a dozen worlds, almost always smiling, almost always pleased to see them (even the Plodex on Divura 5). She had thought more than once that this easy social grace was Peter's super power. 

The black alien slipped away silently. Gamora was glad to note the interior seemed more clean and composed, if not strictly professional or particularly medical. Peter dropped onto a upholdstered bench and shrugged. "She'll be out when she can. She's a busy woman. Most of her consultations are done long distance. She has a medical grade hologram projector. It's helpful for her clients who can't always swing by in person. She saved my life three times."

"Five times, as I count." Not much different from the spindly black creature that greeted them, Mattei entered the room. Her ebony skin glimmered like metal, the bright pink folds of her clothing floating and swirling around her. A biped by only the strictest definition, she hunkered forward, occasionally using her arms as additional legs. She crossed the entire room in two shimmering graceful lopes. "Yondu is behind in his payments. Unless you are here to bring them current or this is an emergency, we will have to postpone any checkups."

"Ah, yeah, about Yondu, we parted company a bit over a standard year ago. I'm here on my own," Peter clarified. He gently tossed the data stick with his medical summary, and she snatched it out of the air with remarkably dexterous, taloned fingers. "I want a second opinion on that."

"Give me a moment to read then," Mattei said. She slid the data stick into a wall terminal. Casting a sidelong glance from the screen and its information, she gestured to Gamora. "Are you going to introduce me to your companion? New crew, friend, lover?"

Gamora got the disturbing feeling that Mattei might have tried her hand at all three roles with Peter Quill at one point or another, and didn't that just say everything you needed to know about him? "I'm Gamora, friend and crew."

"We're Guardians of the Galaxy, actually. I know you don't get a lot of fresh news out here, but we're sort of famous in Xandarian space. We saved a planet, vaporized a violent Kree fanatic. It was a thing. Don't you have a discount for word-saving heroes?" Peter asked. 

Mattei laughed, exposing a mouthful of glittering blue teeth. "You know better. But I did hear something of your world-saving. I did not know it was you. To think I saved your life five times for you to finally do something noble with it. Yondu must be severely disappointed."

"He hasn't put a new bounty on me," Peter said. "I'm calling that a win."

Mattei tapped the wall, moving through the medical file. "Well, I have good news and bad news, Peter. You do not have an autoimmune condition. It looked enough like sick hybrid syndrome, I suppose, but it isn't. In his defense, your diagnosing physician didn't have enough of your history to get it right."

"If the Shi'ar doctor was wrong, why did Peter get better?" Gamora asked. "He was very ill."

"No, he wasn't ill." Mattei folded her body onto a flimsy piece of furniture, that resembled a coat rack more than a chair, resting her head on her knees. "The doctor just shocked your system, Peter, slowing your transition. I told Yondu when you were a child that your flesh was temporary, a husk that would fall away eventually. The Shi'ar doctor's treatment won't stop it or even slow it for much longer based on the scans we took on your arrival."

"My flesh is temporary? I rather like my flesh," Peter said, not quite pulling off the bravado he usually fronted when faced with fear. "So I'm dying?"

"Not death, metamorphosis," Mattei sighed. "Your mother gave you this face. Your father will give you your next. Forget this nonsense about gene therapy. You aren't Teran enough to survive it. Your father's nature is taking over Peter, as it was designed to. You can't stop it. If you want, you can ride out the transition here."

"Peter is just going through some strange unknown alien puberty?" Gamora asked, "How do we know that you're not the one misdiagnosing him?"

Mattei unfolded from her chair and crossed to Peter, perching at eye level. Using a taloned finger she smoothly peeled a strip of skin from Peter's arm. In an instant Gamora had a blade to the alien's throat, daring her to make another move to harm either of them.

"Gamora, don't hurt her. She was making a point," Peter whispered. "Point made."

His arm wasn't bleeding. It didn't even hurt. He could see his bone, shimmering just under the muscle of his arm, faintly glowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which red herrings die, die, die.


	7. Ephemera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short Chapter, which fits with the chapter title. This is the end of part I. Next up is an interlude and then Part II. 
> 
> Short HIATUS warning! I will likely take a little time to get the first three to four chapters fleshed out before posting part II, to make sure I'm happy with my decisions and will be able to complete the fic with those choices. Having painted myself into a corner on a fic before, this is important! 
> 
> This fandom has been such a blast so far :) Thanks to everyone who has read and commented.

* * *

****

Sight Line Outpost 2015

* * *

Mattei's offer to allow Peter to ride out his metamorphosis in her facility didn't survive Gamora's attempt to kill her. He was able to bargain for a treatment plan that they could take with them, but when you don't know anything really about the species you're becoming, who knew what support would be required? Gamora stalked at his side, still visibly angry at the damage done to Peter's arm.

"We're going to Xandar. The Shi'ar doctor and that spider you call friend don't agree, so we need a third opinion," Gamora declared. "Agreed?"

Peter thought his suddenly bioluminescent bones were leaning toward Mattei's diagnosis, but couldn't see much point in arguing. They needed to finish restocking the ship somewhere. "Fine, we'll go to Xandar, but first we need to have a crew meeting."

"We don't need a meeting to decide to go to Xandar. We can set the course and then have a meeting. This is all happening too fast." Gamora was back aboard the ship and headed for the cockpit only pausing long enough to make sure Peter was safely aboard. "Confirm everyone is on the ship. We're launching as soon as I get clearance from the tower.

Peter paused by Groot's pot and sighed. "You would think she'd let me panic. I'm the one glowing." Still and silent, Groot gave no sign he'd heard Peter. The tree hadn't shown any signs of life since the Gateway Colony stop, and Peter was starting to get worried. "Maybe we can find a botanist on Xandar to take a look at you too."

"He's fine, you know," Rocket poked his head out of a corner of the room, a pile of gizmos scattered around him. "You've got to be patient with trees. He's gone dormant before, once for nearly three months. Won't lie, I flipped out a bit, but he told me on the other side that I had to give him time to reboot, at least a standard month before worrying, so no botanist for a few weeks anyway."

Never a private moment, Peter sighed. They really needed a bigger ship. "Groot's my first tree companion, so I'll take your word for it." Reflexively, Peter wondered if Rocket had raided the ship for any of those sparkly bits he was mixing and matching, but as he had never actually damaged the ship with his scavenging, he couldn't bring himself to complain. Peter slipped around Groot and took a seat on a half-empty supply crate. "Drax isn't off ship is he? Gamora asked me to make sure everyone was accounted for."

"Yeah, he's on board. And I heard her _order_ you to find me and Drax. Why exactly are we decamping to Xandar so fast? Did you steal something? If you did, you have to share. We're a team." Rocket cast a hopeful, mercenary glance to Peter.

"What is everything about between me and Gamora lately? She wants me to see another doctor. Want to see why?" Peter offered Rocket his arm. The skin around the edges of the open wound had begun to curl, crispy like dying leaves. The bones were still glowing faintly.

"Fuck." Rocket reached out a paw and tentatively touched the wound edge; a piece of the brittle skin flaked and fell away. "You're burning up. That has to hurt. Is it an infection?"

"It doesn't hurt." Peter folded the damaged arm to his chest. "The new doc thinks I'm going to be a butterfly." At Rocket's incredulous snort, Peter clarified, "I'm going through a metamorphosis, taking on my father's species' natural form."

"Huh," Rocket said. "We're sure it's not the other thing with your immune system? We spent a lot of credits on sterilizers if it isn't your immune system."

"Why would an autoimmune disease make my bones glow? And before you ask, no I still have no clue what my father is. The glowing bones didn't help anyone narrow it down." Peter shifted on his crate, more skin and muscle flaking away to the floor. "I'm going to my cabin. Rocket, if this transition doesn't go well-I mean, I may not have Sick Hybrid Syndrome, but species don't always combine well in other ways. If I don't survive this, you all shouldn't file a death report. Yondu will try to repossess the ship if he finds out. I'm going to electronically file all the documents you guys will need to claim the Milano if the worst happens. You'll handle it for me, just in case?"

Another friend might have scolded Peter that he was going to be fine and that making morbid preparations were unnecessary, but Rocket was a realist, maybe a bit of a cynic. He had seen the worst happen a few too many times with other experiments in the lab not to recognize the smell of death clinging to Peter. "Yeah, I'll handle it. You try not to die, all right."

* * *

**Earth 1988**

* * *

Peter knew it wasn't good news when his teacher sent him to the office and made him bring his backpack. His last two visits to the office had been for trips to the hospital to say goodbye to his mother because they thought she wasn't going to survive a procedure. He had no reason to think this was anything else. His grandpa was there and he guided him to the truck, without actually saying anything. Once sealed into the leather-scented cocoon of the truck cab, Grandpa turned to him.

"Pete, you've been so grown up, handling everything. We're staying at the hospital tonight, staying with your mom," Grandpa said.

Peter nodded, glad he had his Walkman. Waiting at the hospital turned into a lot of time alone in the hall while the adults talked about things he wasn't allowed to know, like that they thought his mom was going to die, but she wasn't. She hadn't died any of the other times they gathered together like this and she wasn't dying this time. His mom was too strong to die. 

Peter couldn't see the umbilicus of light that connected him to his mother. He had no way to perceive how his hope feds hers and vice versa. All he knew was that when he walked into her hospital room, his belief in her recovery didn't increase like usual. She was sleeping, so tiny and wasted and brittle. Her breaths were coming in rapid unnatural puffs. He was used to seeing her like this, but it seemed more extreme than ever. He stood at her bedside and tried to imagine her healthy and well, a trick he had been able to manage every other visit, but not today. 

Grandpa ushered him outside to sit in the hall in his usual spot, the actual room too completely crammed with aunts and cousins, to allow him a place in the by his mother's bed. Peter appreciated that his grandpa never tried to talk too much about what was happening. Settling the orange headphones over his ears, he tried to disappear into the music, to forget where he was and why, listening to the tape beginning to end, over and over.

Then his grandpa came back and took him to his mother's bedside. Peter felt oddly disconnected from the scene, hearing the words but not completely registering them. His mother was reaching for him, not radiating hope, but calm certainty of death. No, Peter refused to accept that certainty, the goodbye in that hand. He felt a tingling from his head to his toes, his eyes watering as a long tone blared and his mother's hand went limp. 

A river of white light, just outside the human visual spectrum connecting Peter to his mother flickered and died, an imperceptible connection made obvious by its absence. For the first time in his life, Peter was alone.

"No!" Peter had never felt so desolate in his life, his mind ripped raw. The scream erupting from him faded as his grandpa carried him bodily from the room. 

He hurt in his head and his chest, his skin even hurt. Peter touched his chest briefly, confused and scared, and God, so alone. He ran from the room and its ominously blaring tone, from the hospital and its antiseptic, hateful smell. 

He ran into the dark of the night and vanished from the world.

* * *

**The Milano 2015**

* * *

At least it doesn't hurt became Peter's mantra over the next few days, as his glowing bones became brighter, shining through his skin, burning through him. His left arm degenerated rapidly, skin then muscle and sinew drying to ash and dropping to the floor. His hands followed close behind, bone poking out of his fingertips. He used the bandages in the med kit to conceal the gaping holes in his arm and to cover his skeletal fingers. He wasn't a doctor but he knew basically how an arm and a hand worked. Muscles attached to bone expanding and contracting to move the appendage. His left arm ought to be about as useful as a limp cudgel, but he could still move it, and what the Hell did that mean?

When his right cheek flaked away, exposing his glowing teeth to the world, Peter couldn't help the hysterical laugh that bubbled out of him hoarsely. "I know this movie. The Xandarian doctor is going to diagnosis me as a zombie and shoot me in the head." The only thing keeping him relatively calm in the face of his body decaying in front of him, was the hope that new flesh was coming, his father's flesh.

Resolutely, Peter taped a piece of gauze over the hole where his cheek used to be, and headed out to the cockpit to watch the stars. If he was dying, he'd rather die with a view. He had almost slipped back to sleep when an angry green assassin joined him. "She KNEW what she was doing when she cut you. Have you read this? It says it here in the treatment plan she wrote for you that she thought rupturing the skin the Shi'ar doctor regenerated would speed up the process. Once we have you safely in a Xandarian hospital, I am returning to eviscerate her."

"Gamora, did you read the part where she thinks my best chance at survival is speeding the process up?" Peter was careful not to mention that he could already be under the care of a medic he actually trusted if Gamora hadn't tried to cut her head off. He was also careful not to gesture as he talked, hiding his gruesomely glowing fingers. "We'll be back to Xandar tomorrow. They'll probably have their own diagnosis and plan, if there's any part of me left to treat."

"I never knew I hated doctors, but I hate them all," Gamora said. She extended her arm, palm up, an offer he couldn't help but recognize as an invitation to hold hands, but Peter didn't budge. Curled into the pilot's seat, he looked away from her. 

"My hands are in bad shape," Peter explained. "Lots of bones, lots of mechanical wear, not a lot of tissue to lose. You don't want to hold that."

"Does it hurt?" Gamora asked, not yet taking her hand back.

"Not physically," Peter said. He pulled his hands out and flexed them for her, the last few sinews of tendon releasing. "I shouldn't be able to move them, but I can. Look how bright they've gotten."

"Can I?" Gamora trapped one of his hands between her own. It was nothing but the bones, but they didn't feel like bones. He was hot, like a flame. "Do you have sensation?"

"I shouldn't but I do. I feel you holding my hand." Peter's breaths had become shallow and the glow far brighter. He was radiating heat, the remaining flesh on his bones flaking away in dry sheets. "It's so bright."

"Peter, oh God, please don't do this," Gamora said, tightening her grip on his hand until the heat forced her to let go. "We're almost back to Xandar."

But he was ablaze, his green eyes lost to the light burning from his bones. "At least it doesn't hurt." His voice, garbled and strange cut off abruptly, the glowing bones disintegrating with the rest of him until only a languidly pulsing ball of liquid light remained.

Gamora stretched her blistered fingers out to the bright orange and yellow sphere of light. "Peter?" The light flowed toward her, through her. For a moment she was Peter, adrift and scared and being pulled in a million directions. Overwhelmed, Gamora crumpled to the ground. 

The light around her pulsed in time with her breaths, dimming and brightening, then without warning it dissipated.

Abruptly alone in her head again, Gamora rose shakily, scanning for any hint of Peter's light, but he was gone, a morbid dusting of ash the only remnant of her Terran friend.

* * *

****

In a Distant Corner of the Galaxy

* * *

A million tentacles of light stretched through a thousand systems, thick cords splitting and twisting down to root in individuals. Those billions upon billions of beings moved in oblivious synchrony, their tethers of light flowing together and apart as they moved through their days, working and playing. No being bearing a tether raised voice or hand in aggression or violence. They sang spontaneously, the light burning brighter with song. They lived in perfect harmony.

At the center of the web of light, his hand never straying from the master control, a being hovered, intent on his work. He tweaked his instrument minutely, again and again, testing his web for gaps or flaws, expanding to the next individual and the next.

Like a bomb had gone off, new light blossomed far from the being's home, bright and orange, a novel network, visible to only a very few who could see.

Curious, the being tasted the new light, a familiar flavor. His own light shifted from the mellow blue serenity of his work, to a turbulent red. 

"Yondu Undonta, what have you done to my son?"


	8. Interlude - Death

****

**2015**

* * *

****

The Milano

* * *

It did not go unnoticed by Drax that his companions spoke in vague, often incomprehensible circles so that he could never be completely sure that they meant what they said. He tried to adjust to this tendency, looking for clues that the individual meant something beyond the surface of their words, but he failed more often than he succeeded at interpreting metaphors and sarcasm.

It wasn’t surprising that he paused to decide what Gamora might mean when she told them that Peter had spontaneously combusted and transformed into a ball of light. He knew that Peter had been unwell and possibly undergoing a transformation. Burning and then becoming light, sounded lethal. It sounded like death. “Our friend, Peter, is dead then?” Drax asked, just to be certain.

“No!”

“Yeah.”

Gamora and Rocket answered simultaneously, and of course contradictory. Drax frowned between them. 

Glaring at Rocket, Gamora continued, “I don’t believe he died. He’s just not here at the moment and he’s transformed a bit more drastically than any of us planned for.”

“I’m sorry, but people without bodies who vanish into balls of light are dead until proven otherwise. You can believe what you want. Hope. Pray. Whatever strikes your fancy.” Rocket hunched his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not like I’m happy about this, but be realistic.”

Drax tuned out the argument as Gamora and Rocket continued to make verbal jabs at one another. He needed time to digest the facts as he understood them, time to decide what was true. Peter was gone in a ball of light or gone into death. The most salient point to Drax’s eye was that Peter was gone. “Peter is dead to us whether he has truly joined his ancestors in the afterlife or not,” Drax said into a lull of the conversation, oblivious to the context or what had passed in the time he was organizing his thoughts. “When someone you care for has gone beyond your ability to reach them, this is death.”

Rocket stared, visibly shocked. “That was damn close to a metaphor, and exactly what I’ve been saying for the last half hour.”

“You are both faithless cowards,” Gamora growled. “Peter needs our help. He is not beyond our ability to reach.”

“Okay, brave one, tell us how to help him?” Rocket snapped back. “Tell me where to point the ship and we’ll go.”

Choosing to ignore them again, Drax had already decided what first needed to be done. Helping Peter in his current state might not be possible, but leaving his ashes scattered around the cockpit was not respectful. Using a brush and a pan, he began collecting the remains of his friend, placing them in a bowl scrounged from the galley. By the time he had scraped together every bit that he could find, Rocket and Gamora had stopped arguing and were watching him.

He held the bowl of fine gray powder in front of him, solemnly. “Do either of you know the Terran ritual of burial?”

“He’s not dead,” Gamora dissented tiredly. “You might as well be asking what Terrans do with their toenail clippings.”

Rocket frowned, his ears going back. “We’ll put them in a box. I have a box.”

* * *

**Earth**

* * *

John and Betsy Quill didn’t have a perfect marriage. They had their share of fights, near splits, and more than their fair share of tragedy. Years of deciding to love one another, of deciding to make it work even when everything seemed wrong, had left them a well-worn machine, with set grooves and ruts. Every Sunday they had breakfast together, a full egg and bacon feast. They attended morning church service, then they visited their kids.

Southern Pines Memorial Park wasn’t anything special as cemeteries went. It was adequately maintained with the grass trimmed weekly, regularly raked pine needles, and neatly spaced rows of tasteful headstones. John Quill had not picked out the cemetery where the people he loved now resided, that had been Betsy. She made the important decisions. Oh, she made a show of getting his opinion on them, but they both knew it was up to her. She picked the paint and he put it on the walls. She picked the cemetery and he filled it with everyone he loved.

This Sunday was different. It was the first Sunday since Betsy had joined Meredith and Peter in the ground. Her death had been quick at least, a massive stroke while she was cleaning her kitchen. The doctors said it wouldn’t have mattered if he had been there. She was dead in minutes, but John wished he had been there for those minutes. He wished she hadn’t been alone. 

John didn’t fix breakfast and he didn’t dress for church. He took down his old bottle of whiskey, only rarely used for hot toddies during flu season and toasting the New Year. Betsy had never tolerated recreational drinking in her home on a more regular basis. He stowed the half-filled bottle safely in his glove box and drove straight over to the cemetery. After all the times he had walked it, John didn’t need to count rows or even think about where he was going. The family plot and its fresh mound found him.

John poured a bit of whiskey onto the ground in front of each stone and took one drink himself. “Don’t judge,” he told Betsy’s stone. “Peter would have been old enough to toast with us today if he’d lived.”

Of all the headstones, Peter’s was the most painful to contemplate, the only preventable death of the three. Peter had been his failure, no one else’s. John had left him alone in a moment of chaos and grief. It didn’t seem possible that Peter would run away and stay away. Two weeks later, when they drug a kid out of the Mud River there hadn’t been much to identify, but the lab in Savannah said it was him, and that had been the end of it, in a way an end to everything. He and Betsy had carried on living, but a man wasn’t built to bury his children and grandchildren. He certainly wasn’t built to carry on without his wife too. John took another discreet sip of the whiskey. 

Betsy wouldn’t understand suicide, and he couldn’t risk not seeing his family again in the afterlife, so John had decided to drink the whiskey bottle dry on Sundays from now on, and carry on as long as his body and the good lord insisted. 

Rather than take another sip, he screwed the top back on the booze and loaded back into his truck. He would finish it at home. Accidentally killing himself driving might hurt someone else, and that was the last thing he wanted. He passed the occasional car of church-goers on the road, but John didn’t consider following them. The thought of a hundred of his friends and neighbors trying to console him was hateful to contemplate. It had been bad enough after Meredith and Peter when he’d had Betsy beside him.  
  
John eased his foot off the accelerator as it occurred to him that home might be a poor choice of destinations. His sisters would notice his absence at church this morning and they would come to the house. They would never let him alone to his grief. Evelyn would cook and Gertrude would fuss and next Sunday they’d be at the house early enough to try and bundle him back to church. John didn’t want well-meaning family crowding him and coddling him. Spontaneously, he took the exit for Bear Creek, for his favorite fishing spot and drove until there was nothing to see but trees and squirrels, nothing to hear but the creek and the wind.

When he finally arrived at the cabin, no supplies but the whiskey in his pocket, John walked out onto the small private dock. He had taken Peter here a two times in his short life. Odd, introverted, cautious Peter who had apologized to the crickets before putting them on his hook. 

John wiped at the tears in his eyes before they could fall and took his first long draught of the spirits he intended to consume, relishing the fire of them in his mouth and throat and stomach. He drank until everything felt numb and indistinct. He dropped the empty bottle on the dock and staggered his way as far as the porch swing where he quietly passed out.

The headache that greeted him on awakening was expected, the swing rocking gently in the wind was also expected and even welcome, but the small warm body curled into his side startled him fully awake. John shifted, holding the child by his side at arms-length. Reddish brown hair over sleepy green eyes, the ghost of his grandson blinked at him and yawned. “Is it time to go fishing?” he asked in Peter’s voice. He wrinkled his nose. “You smell funny.”

How many times had John imagined seeing Peter again, imagined that the coroner had been mistaken. That fantasy had mutated over the years, imagining the man his grandson would have become, but eight year old Peter couldn’t be curled next to him, not physically, so why could he feel him breathing, moving, his feet thumping on the porch boards. It had to be a hallucination, probably induced by the alcohol and the shock of Betsy passing.

“I couldn’t find the fishing rods or the bait in the truck,” Peter said, accusingly, “You wouldn’t wake up.” 

The ghost or hallucination shimmered, becoming intangible for a moment as he stared out toward the creek. John reached out again, expecting his hand to pass through the apparition this time, but Peter solidified under his hand. “You’re not real.” John turned the ghost child toward him, hungrily viewing every detail of his face and body. “I’ve lost my mind.”

“I feel real,” Peter said. “Can’t we just fish? We can catch a big one and eat it for dinner.”

There was a decision to be made in that moment, John knew. He could walk to the truck, leave the ghost behind and drive to one of his sister’s houses for help. He obviously needed help. Hallucinating your long-dead eight year old grandson could only signal a serious mental deterioration.

But John didn’t go for help. He pulled Peter into his arms, squeezing him. If this delusion lasted the rest of his life, he’d live in it. “I forgot the fishing gear,” John said. “But there are a couple of old cane poles in the back and we can dig some worms in the woods. Do you remember where the spade and pail are?"

* * *

**Lead Ravager Ship**

* * *

Becoming the Ravagers’ leader didn’t happen by accident. Yondu didn’t apply for the job. He wasn’t elected in a democratic vote. Yondu wasn’t necessarily the meanest or the strongest or the smartest of the other Ravagers, but necessity breeds change in certain hostile environments.

Yondu's predecessor, Bigrot, was a Stenth. Yellow-skinned and smart, he ruled the Ravagers with a brutal cunning that his men couldn’t help but respect. Then a salvage deal went wrong and they were forced to flee to free space to avoid a multijurisdictional man hunt. Free space made for excellent hiding, but not much else--no trade routes to raid, no settlements to barter with or raze to the ground. When they emerged hungry and a little desperate, they tried to waylay a caravan, the wrong caravan. Infected with a virulent strain of the Transmode Virus they lost more than half their ships and three quarters of their men.

To fend off starvation, Bigrot ordered his officers to kill ten percent of the remaining crew for food until he could score them another job. The executions went off without a hitch until one of the ten percent fought back. A Centurian kid with a deadly whistle sent his arrow through Bigrot’s head, killing any of the officers that didn’t surrender immediately. He fed the crew with their former leaders and led them back to prosperity with his own recklessly violent style of piracy. 

The only real threat to his long captaincy had been caused by Peter Quill. First stealing the infinity stone from him and then causing damage to his men and his fleet with a mission that again provided no significant payday. It was a dangerous pattern for a Ravager captain to slide into, losing money and men and ships. Yondu felt confident in his ability to defend almost any frontal assault, but mutiny could take other forms. Poison in his rations would be an ignoble way to go. 

Ravagers with food in their stomachs, liquor on their breath, and units in their pockets didn’t bother with mutiny. Yondu’s sole purpose for the last dozen jobs had been to make a profit, enough profit that no one would even think about risking something as dangerous as mutiny. He’d been pretty damn successful if he did say so himself. No big jobs, but paying jobs where nobody got killed or too awfully injured had calmed the crew down. 

No one seemed overly interested in hunting Peter down to make him pay for his betrayals either which Yondu was secretly grateful for. You couldn’t raise a ragged little Terran savage and not wax a touch sentimental over the creature. There was a time, no so many years ago, when Yondu thought he had raised himself a perfect Ravager. Peter proved himself to be smart, deadly, resourceful and far more damn loyal to him than any member of the crew besides Kraglin (and Kraglin was family).

While he didn’t want to see him dead, there was no denying that Peter was a disappointment. Falling from perfect Ravager to saving planets. What the Hell kind of title was Guardian of the Galaxy? Yondu couldn’t say for sure when he started to lose the Terran’s loyalty, but the distance had started not long after he gave him his own ship. A gift that should have cemented Peter as his man had been the last moment of genuine closeness between them.

The small doll Peter had sent him instead of his infinity stone, smiled smugly back from his control console, and Yondu considered if he was ready to try and get some payment out of the Terran for everything he had invested in the ingrate and everything the blasted Guardian had stolen.

“Captain!” Kraglin jogged onto the bridge and hurried to Yondu’s side. “We have an incident on level three.”

“An incident? Why ain’t you handling it if we got an incident?” Yondu asked, “Do I have to do everything?”

Rather than waste time asking for details, Yondu left the bridge, Kraglin and two of his other officers following for backup. Level three was where he sent newly signed on crew to sort themselves out. They were on the lead ship where they could be watched and handled more easily, but they were often a boatload of trouble. Sometimes death by arrow and a trip to the food processor for a cantankerous shipmate was enough to straighten out a whole crew’s worth of troublemakers.

Before he could slide through the door to confront the problem, Kraglin stopped him and whispered so only he could hear. “I don’t know why or how, but Peter’s in there.”  
  
Yondu frowned at his nephew, Peter had better sense than to come anywhere near the Ravagers with what he owed them. He knew a large portion of the crew wouldn’t accept any retribution but a trip to the food processor for the level of betrayal Peter had shown his former allies. So Yondu wasn’t as surprised as he could have been to find Peter, holed up behind a pile of fuel crates, single-handedly fighting to keep more than fifty Ravagers from skinning him alive and eating him.

“STAND DOWN!” Yondu shouted into the din, beating a fist into the nearest wall. The fighting crew quieted, turning to their captain. Peter kept his position behind the crates where no one could fire on him without risking blowing them all to oblivion, but he turned to Yondu too. “Quill, that you?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter gasped. “Some of the crew seem to think I betrayed them, stole from them, but I didn’t, Yondu. I wouldn’t.”

“Come on out here, boy. Ain’t nobody going to eat anybody unless I say so, and I want to know what’s going on.” Yondu brushed his coat back, displaying his arrow as he spoke. 

Apparently reassured by his control of the situation, Peter stepped into the room more openly, nursing a badly lacerated arm. The boy who looked to Yondu wasn’t the man who left the Ravagers, but the nineteen year old kid that thrived among them more than a decade ago. He had reached his adult height but not his breadth, still whipcord thin. It was Peter right when he had really become valuable, charming contacts, sensing trouble, fucking anyone who didn’t accommodate their agenda until they magically did. “If it ain’t the traitor himself. Quill, you saying you don’t remember stealing an infinity stone from us? You saying you don’t remember getting thirty men killed and five ships destroyed in a battle that you didn’t pay up for involving us in? Is that what you’re saying?”

The blood drained from Peter’s face and he shuffled back a step. “I don’t know what an infinity stone is. Why would I betray you, Yondu? Where exactly would I go? If I did this, why don’t I remember? Maybe it was a Skrull or some other shape-shifter?”

Yondu couldn’t explain how Peter had appeared or how he had lost about a decade of age and memories, but it was obvious to him that he wasn’t lying. Yondu knew the smell of a Skrull and he knew his pet Terran’s smell too. Somehow Peter was back and Yondu couldn’t help smiling. The universe was giving him a chance to try this again. At the very least they were going to make back some of what Peter had cost them. If Peter was anything, he was good for business, especially at this age. “I would be within my rights to let the boys eat you. You cost us a fortune, but I think you might be worth more working off your theft.” Yondu turned to the crew. “Boys, elect a representative. Peter will be taking his first punishment with fists. No guns, no knives, no killing, but you can beat the Hell out of him as long as he heals up afterwards.” 

At Yondu’s command, Kraglin secured Peter’s hands behind his back. The men selected a ridiculously muscular Komodo warrior to deliver the beating, and Peter looked at Yondu a little desperately.

“Don’t kill ‘em,” Yondu reminded. He whistled faintly, bringing his arrow to life. “Kill ‘em and I’ll kill you. That boy’s got to live to earn back my money.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure that the Ravager section works, but I'm going with it.
> 
> There was a 'split into essences' Star-Lord plot in the comics. I read about it online, but didn’t actually read the arc. Part 2 is quasi-inspired by that. Since I’ve only read a paragraph summary of the arc, I can’t say how similar the treatment will be.
> 
> Part 2 is more linear than part 1 which was constant misdirection and red herrings. Part 2 should have a clear path which should become obvious after chapter 9.


	9. Contracts

**Part II - Afterlife**

* * *

**Dre’lan Spaceport 1988**

* * *

Two type of clients hired the Ravagers. Other criminals and their gangs occasionally needed to subcontract, but most of their business came in the form of overtly respectable criminals who needed someone else to get their hands dirty. Yondu found it easy to work for the hypocrites of the galaxy, because he almost never had to deal with them face to face. Intermediaries connected the Ravagers to their clients and they were worth every dime of their cut in the safety they provided.

Today, Yondu was meeting a client face to face at the client’s insistence, an unusual and dangerous request. If the job hadn’t sounded easy and profitable when their contact phoned it in, Yondu wouldn’t have considered it. As it was he and his most trusted officers crowded into a tavern’s private back room, not drinking the beverages they ordered, and waiting for this strange alien who had to see his mercenaries before hiring them.

The odd alien walked into their meeting wearing the most ridiculous white flight suit Yondu had ever seen. While he looked Xandarian, he smelled different, almost like ozone. Undefined instinctual dread settled in his stomach, and Yondu knew before the cool-eyed stranger spoke that he wasn’t taking the job, whatever it was, and he might even kill the man if he tried to argue the point. His officers tensed, as Yondu exposed his arrow.

“Yondu Udonta, we will speak in private,” the client ordered, his voice calm and unconcerned, “The rest of you will excuse us.”

At this point, Yondu should have laughed all the way to kicking the ponce’s teeth in while he and his officers went on their way. If the captain didn’t like the look of a client, that was all that mattered. But his officers quietly vacated the room. The smell of ozone intensified, and Yondu could feel the buzz of his frill’s low level psionic abilities being stimulated--instincts that had saved him from becoming stew under Bigrot’s command screamed danger. As much as he wanted to heed that psionic warning, Yondu couldn’t speak or whistle or move.

Their meeting room held nothing but a few dirty seats and a wobbly table. The stranger arranged his chair across from Yondu and sat like a politician preparing to debate. “You’re Centaurian. You sensed me, probably smelled me. Do you recognize me? Were you going to try to kill me?”

“I don’t kill unless there’s profit.” Yondu couldn’t speak another word after he’d answered the bastard’s question. He couldn’t add that he had considered kicking him in the head until he’d bled all over his stupid white flight suit. 

“Your race originates from a portion of the galaxy quite close to my garden. I am familiar with your kind, your capabilities and your limitations. You will not be able to resist the commands I give you today. I would beg your forgiveness for the inconvenience, but you’re a murderer and a pirate. You will do as you’re told, accept the payment I have brought for you, and be glad that I intend to release you at the end of this contract.”

Yondu stretched his expression into a wide, grimacing parody of a smile, determined to break free of this bastard’s control, to rise and run, but he couldn’t even hiss a denial at him.

“Planet id 238512033, an interdicted word known most commonly as Terra, is your next destination. You are going to retrieve my son, Peter Jason Quill. You will know him by you frill’s reaction.” The man ran a single finger along the red flesh atop Yondu’s head, sending warm jolts down the pirate’s spine. “When you have my son in your custody, you will transport him in as close to isolation as possible to the following coordinates.” The man pushed a data-cube to Yondu. “He will be kept in good health, fed and watered appropriately. Upon arriving at the destination you will contact me for your final instructions.” The man folded his hands in his lap and paused, letting silence stretch between them. “You may ask one question, pirate.”

Yondu flexed his jaw, still unable to purse his lips, still bound from whistling. “If you think my boys and me can do all that without payment, you’ve got the wrong idea about the units it takes to fly halfway across this here galaxy. The boys will mutiny before we get back from Terra and likely as not they’ll eat your boy. You said something about payment?”

“Of course, will one thousand fire gems suffice? I hold little common currency, but such commodities are easily exchanged.” The man gestured casually as though he hadn’t just proposed paying a small fortune to a man he seemed to already have involuntarily bound to his will.

“Two would be better,” Yondu replied.

“Why not just be safe, we’ll make it three thousand. My courier will arrive later today.” The man sat back, his form less defined, light seeping around the edges. “You may tell your crew that I am the Gardener, and you are retrieving my son, but you will repeat nothing else of this meeting.” Now more light that man, the Gardener continued. “And Yondu, if you fail me, if my son comes to any harm due to your action or inaction, you and yours will suffer in ways you can’t even imagine.”

* * *

Nothing in Yondu’s demeanor betrayed how badly their client meeting had gone. They had returned with a healthy payment and a clear, simple mission. The men rolled with the plan, unconcerned with Yondu’s cageyness and the vagueness of the plan. Their fearless leader wasn’t known for oversharing. For his part, Yondu was angry to a degree he hadn’t felt since his commander tried to eat him. To have his mind controlled even for a short time filled him with enough impotent fury that he didn’t trust himself to even talk most days. He wanted to kill something, preferably a smug Xandarian-looking, glowing jackass. Since the jackass wasn’t available for killing, Yondu focused on finishing the mission as quickly as possible, and putting the entire enterprise behind him.

Slipping down to an interdicted world wasn’t the work of an armada, and most of the Ravagers were left behind for this mission. They took a single m-ship, the smallest that could hold enough fuel for the roundtrip, and a core skeleton crew. Yondu chose Kraglin not for experience or skills, but for loyalty. The kid was barely old enough to purchase a pulse weapon, but he wouldn’t question Yondu. Jerze, a surly Rajak, he selected for experience, piloting ability, and because he had admitted to having younger siblings. Yondu didn’t know how old this child, Peter, was exactly but if there were feces to be dealt with, he intended to delegate.

Searching an entire planet for one particular half-breed Terran should have been a daunting task for the three Ravagers, but the Gardener’s data cube pointed them in the right direction, and Yondu’s so sensitive frill had done the rest. Pulling the little savage aboard had been child’s play, then things got interesting.

Screaming and panicking, the skinny little thing had clocked Jerze with his bag, kneed Kraglin in his crotch and fled aft. It wasn’t a big ship, so Yondu wasn’t particularly worried. He strolled after the creature, smelling fear and just a hint of the ozone his father exuded. He found it brandishing a jagged rod and yammering in some obscure native dialect. Wishing he could do more than intimidate the little bugger, Yondu whistled his arrow to the savage’s neck and rather enjoyed the clatter of the rod being dropped. Some things transcended language. 

Yondu grinned with his sharp teeth and using his arrow to keep the little bugger still, jammed a language bit into the kid’s head, just behind his right ear. It wouldn’t solve their language barrier immediately but it would speed up the kid learning Standard, and once they could communicate, he would scare the little savage bad enough that he wouldn’t think about trying any more daring escapes.

Jerze and Kraglin joined him, Jerze sporting a bloody nose, and Kraglin limping awkwardly. “Bout time, boys.” When Jerze moved to strike the child, Yondu held up a hand stopping him. “We’re being paid to deliver a pristine product, so no retribution for the outburst earlier. Little bugger was just scared.”

Yondu stared down at the terrified child, and couldn’t help being a bit impressed. Peter hadn’t panicked after his abduction. He had nearly incapacitated two larger targets and maintained the presence of mind not to struggle when faced with a projectile to the neck. The little shit hadn’t even pissed himself. 

If he weren’t bound in a mind-fuck Yondu might have tossed aside the contract to keep the savage. The idea of a pocket-sized Ravager appealed to him, almost like a living version of the lucky charms he kept on his control console.

* * *

**The Milano - 2015**

* * *

The music from Peter’s tape deck swelled, singing in melodic, incomprehensible Terran words. Sitting in the pilot’s chair, Gamora regretted never asking Peter any of his songs’ meanings. She had meant to eventually ask him to explain his music. She hadn’t wanted to rush the process of getting to know one another. Asking for personal information implied you were ready to reciprocate by sharing personal information, and Gamora hadn’t been ready.

She thought they had time. 

Listening to his music wasn’t an act of mourning. Gamora refused to mourn; Peter wasn’t dead after all. The next song began to play a soulful croon that they had all heard a thousand times. She mouthed the strange words eventually singing them into the empty cockpit, and for a moment she imagined she knew what those haunting Terran words were trying to say. 

_but this voice keeps whispering_  
_in my other ear, tells me_  
_I may never see you again_  
_'cause I get a peaceful, easy feeling_  
_and I know you won't let me down_  
_'cause I'm already standing on the ground_

“You have a strong, lovely voice,” Drax said, “May I join you?”

Gamora could feel her cheeks heat at being caught singing, but she nodded that Drax was welcome to stay. The next song began, and Drax was singing along with the first words, an uninhibited baritone rumble. Peter would love this, Gamora thought wistfully and she joined in, singing alien words that meant so much to her lost friend. 

When the tape ended, Drax turned to her with a small, pained smile. “My wife, Ovet, had a lovely singing voice. We sang together in the fields, cultivating vero vines. They grew faster and better to the sound of music. I had not raised my voice in song since she died.”

“You sing well,” Gamora said. “Did Peter ever translate any of his music for you?”

Drax shook his head. “I never asked him to.”

“I never did either.” Silence stretched between them but not uncomfortably. “You know that Rocket found us a job guarding a merchant who needs to pass through a contested patch of Skrull space.” Gamora crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you think we should go?”

“Of course we should go—staying here serves nothing,” Drax said. “We will defend the honorable merchants and slay any pirates who attempt to waylay them in our fallen comrade’s name. It is the job of the living to slay the wicked in the names of their fallen loved ones. It is a gift to them in the afterlife. I did slay thousands of Ronan’s men in the name of my wife and daughter. It is only natural to slay some pirates to honor my friend. Surely, you will join me in this righteous quest?”

She didn’t argue that Peter was actually alive, or that he had been raised as a pirate of sorts. Drax had a point. Some violence might make her feel better. “In Peter’s name then.”  
  
“It is a blood quest.” Drax gripped Gamora’s shoulder and nodded formally. “It will be glorious.”

* * *

**Ravagers – 1988**

* * *

When Yondu generalized that the Terran child couldn’t get up to much trouble in an m-ship manned by three Ravagers, he grossly underestimated the savage’s ability for mayhem. They tried confining him in the cargo bay and assigning Kraglin to food and water duty. The kid escaped into the maintenance ducts. They tried confining him inside a well-ventilated food crate. He somehow escaped and nearly ejected the ship’s only lifepod while they were traveling at full speed. 

Yondu decided then and there that drastic measures were in order. Using a chain and two cuffs, he attached one end to the kid’s wrist and the other to his own. On the positive side, constant exposure to the kid had sped up the kid learning Standard, and he seemed to understand Yondu’s threats more consistently. On the negative side, he had a snot-nosed Terran attached to him.

“We’re approaching the final coordinates,” Jerze said. 

The wistful viciousness in Jerze’s tone made Yondu smile at the man’s simplicity. The Rajak had made it clear from the moment Peter broke his nose that he would be glad to see the end of the Terran child. He probably hoped they were delivering the kid to a purveyor of rare delicacies for consumption. 

The data-cube had directed them to an all but dead world; no evidence of civilization marked the surface, no edifices, no lights, and no roads. “I’ve got to call our employer, boys. A little privacy while I arrange the drop off.” Yondu slipped an ear piece in place. He switched the leash over to Kraglin’s care and secreted himself in the limited privacy of the ship’s sleeping cabin. No need to expose anyone else to this alien’s mind control mojo.

“Ya’ there, Gardener?” Yondu asked. 

“You’re here.” The voice, so cool and detached when arranging their contract betrayed emotion today, excitement like a kid about to open a present. “Peter is with you?”

“Yeah, I got the kid. You want him dropped planet side? There ain’t any structures down there. Where you want ‘em?” Yondu waited for directions, eager to just be done and away.

“The data cube will home in on the location you need. Follow it to a field of urns. You’ll know Peter’s. I placed it there for him. Use your frill if you have any doubt.” The voice hardened now, the earlier excitement vanished. “You will follow my orders in the next part exactly.” 

“First, render Peter unconscious. This should be done without scaring him or causing undue pain. Once he is insensate, you are to kill him. His death should be quick and as painless as possible. After he is dead, please incinerate his body if it does not burn on its own. Do you understand?”

Yondu really didn’t understand. Why collect your kid, cart him halfway across the galaxy just to euthanize him like a dog? He couldn’t verbalize those thoughts though, fucking mind control. He just wanted to hear that Yondu understood how to murder the kid. “Yeah, I understand.”

“It speaks well of you that you find those commands abhorrent, Yondu Udonta. You have twenty four hours to complete your task. Please remain in orbit for two standard days afterwards and then I will release you from my control.”

The communication device beeped twice, but Yondu didn’t remove his ear piece or return to the cockpit. Was this political, religious, or just plain malice? Yondu was a murderer and a thief and a liar, but he was not the kind of monster that killed children—stole from them, sure, ransomed them if the money was good, absolutely. The fact that he hadn’t been unable to actively resist any command from this Gardener asshole, did not make him feel any better about what he was about to do.

Kraglin poked his head into the cabin, Terran shadow just visible behind him. “Captain, the data cube has lead us to a patch of clear land,” Kraglin said, “Should we touch down?”

“A field of urns,” Yondu said, “Make sure we don’t hit any of ‘em, and have Jerze bring us down.”

Torn between reluctance to kill a child and the desire to be finished with this dirty business, Yondu took Peter back from Kraglin and ordered Jerze to accompany them to the planet’s surface. Kraglin had been sent to him to become a Ravager, not a child murderer. His sister would never forgive him for making her son help with what was coming.

The dead world outside was flat and featureless except for urns ranging from a few centimeters tall to ten meters tall. Yondu had expected something uniform, perhaps cylindrical, but these vessels were delicate transparent things, each unique, each glowing with lights in every imaginable shade. His frill, chronically stimulated since meeting the Gardener, pulled him toward a golden urn. It stretched toward the sky in long graceful lines, like a flower on fire. It wasn’t the tallest of the urns, but it had a respectable height just over two meters.

Taking advantage of the language bit in the child’s head, Yondu twisted the device causing Peter to go rigid before collapsing, dangling by his wrist at Yondu’s side.  
Unconscious.

“What the Hell, Yondu. You wouldn’t let me touch him but you fry him on a whim? The little monster broke my nose,” Jerze sneered.

Ignoring Jerze, Yondu unclasped Peter’s wrist and dropped the kid flat on the ground. He pursed his lips to whistle, to send his yaka arrow into the child’s heart. That arrow had been a gift from his father, the only gift that mattered, and he was going to kill a child with it. “Fuck this,” Yondu hissed. For the first time since meeting him, Yondu was able to resist a command the Gardner had given him. Like a valve releasing after existing under intense pressure, he literally sagged in relief. 

“What are we doing?” Jerze asked.

Yondu looked up at the other urns, at the pitiful mounds next to each one, and formulated a quick plan. He was keeping the kid. All he had to do was fool the kid’s homicidal father into thinking his son had died as planned. “We’re faking a homicide. You know the best way to fake an incinerated body?” Yondu whistled shrilly, sending his arrow through Jerze’s forehead. “Incinerate a different body.”

* * *

**The Milano - 2015**

* * *

The Guardians fell into a rhythm, different than it had been with Peter, but not bad. Rocket found work for them, perhaps more skewed to the bounty hunting trade than their usual jobs, but paying, relatively respectable work. Rocket had determinedly not commented on the fact that Gamora had taken to playing Peter’s music at all hours or that she and Drax apparently liked to sing along from time to time. Listening to Thanos’ daughter and Drax the Destroyer sing what passed for music on Terra was hands down the most bizarre moment of his life. To keep himself from commenting, he had had to leave the room.

Rocket spent most of his time with Groot, sometimes talking to him, but mostly just being there, waiting for his friend to wake up already. He had told Peter weeks ago not to worry about the tree going dormant, but that had been weeks ago, and okay he was worried. With Peter vanishing into a light show on them and Groot doing a credible plain-tree impersonation, their ship had gone from overly full, to depressingly empty.

“We have a nibble on a new employment opportunity,” Rocket told Groot, without looking up from the circuit he was rewiring. “The request came through one of Peter’s contacts, and it’s a little weird. The guy wants to meet us in person and he wants to inspect our ship. Odd, right? But Peter marked the contact as a big fish handler (whatever that means) and that we should always take his calls.”

Groot failed to move or speak, or respond in any way, and Rocket patted his trunk. “Fine keep your opinions to yourself. I’ll take you to see a botanist like Peter threatened. You know you hate being prodded by botanists, and it will be your own fault.”

Quirking his ears, Rocket couldn’t hear music or any accompaniment from his crewmates. He wasn’t surprised when Gamora made her way down to the cargo hold and quietly settled her sheathed sword in front of her. He had informed her and Drax that their prospective employer would be stopping by in the afternoon and he appreciated the added security of Gamora’s undivided attention. She had positioned herself in easy view of the open cargo bay doors. Casually, she drew the razor thin blade out and began to polish it with an oil cloth.

Rocket smirked, it wasn’t subtle, but none of them were particularly known for their subtlety. He shifted his project over to work at her elbow. “That prospective employer I told you about is due any time now. Where’s Drax?”

“I told him to stay back, a surprise if we need it. I know you said it was one of Peter’s contacts that sent this employer, but Peter’s contacts are mostly Ravager contacts,” Gamora said, “It would be foolish to be anything but on guard.”

“And this face to face meeting is a weird request.” Rocket nodded, flashing her a grin that exposed all his teeth. 

Gamora was quite prepared to get more out of the client when he stepped through the cargo bay doors, but she was not prepared for his appearance, cool green eyes set in a symmetrical pale face, a too familiar face. She sheathed her sword in one fluid motion. There were too many shapeshifting species in the galaxy to get her hopes up quite yet, but Gamora couldn’t help calling out. “Peter?” 

“He doesn’t smell right.” Rocket calmly settled a gun on the table in front of him, the muzzle pointed at the alien that looked but didn’t smell like their recently absent friend. “You feel like introducing yourself, buddy?”

“I am not Peter, so sorry to confuse you. This is the base form I take when emulating Terran biology. It’s natural I suppose, that my son would resemble this form when he was living as a Terran.” He raised his hands in a universal surrender pose. “If you have some test you’d like to perform to assure yourselves that I’m not a Skrull or a Dire Wraith or any other simple, shapeshifting being, I’m happy to submit.”

It didn’t escape her attention that while the man in front of them had identified himself as Peter’s father, he hadn’t offered a name or alluded to his actual species. “Why have you come here? Why now?” Gamora was shocked at how calm and polite the question had come out, when she wanted to shout at this smug, calm man who hadn’t arrived before her friend had been incinerated in front of her.

“I’ve come for Peter, for my son. You can imagine my surprise, when after nearly thirty years, the child I thought was dead, burst into life, golden and bright, right in front of me. I have a son, a potent, viable son, and with a little help from his friends, we’re going to put him back together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really hard to write. This has been written and rewritten and rewritten again. Hitting the right note with Peter’s father, villain but not villain maybe? He is supposed to be a very alien character with a very skewed perspective on good and evil and free will. 
> 
> The karaoke night was not planned. If I’d sent Rocket in to talk with her, it wouldn’t have happened, but Drax is so delightfully squirrely that it felt right for him. Since awesome mix volume 2 is an unknown, I felt free to use any timeline appropriate songs, but choosing was hard. And I’m not sure it wouldn’t read better without the Eagles lyrics explicitly stated. Does it matter what she was singing since she didn’t REALLY know the language? Does it make it too pat and perfect? It’s not a good humor moment, so I didn’t want to make it a Lionel Ritchie standard, though I considered it. I’m open to opinions on the section as it gave me trouble.


	10. Strange Bedfellows

* * *

**The Milano - 2015**

* * *

If Gamora and Rocket expected Peter’s father to calmly and succinctly explain himself, they were disappointed. The alien circled around so that he was facing Groot and started to hum.

“Buddy, I don’t care whose dad you are, don’t touch the tree. He’s resting,” Rocket commanded, jiggling his gun for emphasis. “You planning to explain that bit about putting Peter back together?”

“He isn’t resting. Your Groot is fighting for Peter. He’s been holding on to him for some time from what I can tell.” He reached a hand out, stopping just short of touching his rough bark. The high pitched whirr of Rocket’s gun powering up warned that the raccoon was not amused at being ignored. “This is going to be tedious if you insist on threatening me. We are not enemies. We happen to share a goal that neither of us can execute without the other. Put away your piddling little weapon and allow me to properly assess the situation.”

Two things stopped Rocket shooting Peter’s father, Gamora’s hand on his shoulder and the prick’s proximity to Groot. “I may be mistaken,” Gamora said, calmly, “but you just said that you need our help. Allies usually start with introductions, some proof of identity, some gesture of confidence. If you really want to help Peter, then we should be allies. My name is Gamora and my friend here is Rocket. We have standard, secured, Xandarian digital documents to prove our identity. Might I have your name and some proof of your relationship to our friend Peter.”

Rocket visibly started and looked askance at Gamora. Their ragtag band of former outlaws each had their own skillset. Peter’s biggest value to date had been his ability to calmly negotiate disparate parties. Gamora was much better at killing dissenting parties, but she had just done a damn fine Peter impersonation. 

“That is remarkable. Completely instinctual,” the alien said. “Could you feel him when he did that, when Peter steered you?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Steering?” Didn’t she know though? How many times in the last few weeks had she felt Peter at her shoulder nudging her away from danger, holding her back from certain destructive tendencies. She had planned to return and eviscerate Mattei for hurting him, for robbing them of precious time. She even programmed a route into the navigation system a dozen times, but something had redirected her again and again. 

“The lady asked you for a name,” Rocket barked. “You got one.”

“My name is a combination of energy pulses outside your visual spectrum. I prefer to be referred to by my profession when interacting in auditory languages. You can call me Gardener, and I suppose we should discuss the situation. It isn’t like we have a choice if we’re going to save my son’s life.”  
He folded himself gracefully onto a supply crate and smiled, a crooked grin that made him look so much like Peter, Gamora had to look away. 

“Have you had enough time to assess the situation, Gardener? Are you ready to explain yourself? Do you know what happened to Peter?” she asked.

“Yondu Udonta did not complete his contract with me is what happened to Peter. We are bioenergetic beings. My son was never supposed to be left to rot in his Terran flesh. He should have been freed from it when he was a child after his mother’s death when he had no truly strong bonds remaining anywhere. He would have been safe and he would have been taught to control himself. As things stand, he has flitted around the galaxy, oblivious to his nature.” The Gardener gestured at Gamora then Rocket and Groot dismissively. “Seeing it up close, it’s apparent to me that he has been making significant exchanges. Everyone he touches takes a part of him with them and he takes a piece of them away. The sheer volume of alien life forces he has compiled in himself by now is frankly horrifying.”

“What are you saying? Peter is inside us?” Rocket asked. “I’d know if I had a piece of my Terran teammate in me.”

“It’s right there. You just can’t see it. Peter has left a piece of himself in every living being he has spent a significant amount of time with for his entire life. When he lived in his Terran body, everything wound back to him, a core with a hundred thousand bands of light stretching away into infinity. The body is gone now and Peter, untrained and confused has rebounded away into those discarded pieces of himself. His consciousness spread over light years, from Terra to here to everywhere. If his mind and body can’t be consolidated in a timely manner, he could dissipate, fade from existence, die. I refuse to let that happen.” 

“If what you’re saying is true, then we want to help. We just need to know how. You seem to know exactly what’s happening, exactly what needs to be done. How do we start?” Gamora asked. 

“While studying his displacement from a distance, I counted four nodes with sufficient energy to have generated a physical manifestation. You collect the four manifestations of Peters and I can make them whole. Peter should be self-sustaining at that point, eliminating the risk of spontaneous dissipation. As for how we start. You start here.” He nodded to their immobile tree. “Your Groot is holding onto Peter for you. You need to get him to loosen that hold a bit. I’ll send a representative to assist.”  
The Gardener rose, straightened his coat and stepped toward the cargo bay doors.

Rocket let loose with his most sarcastic fake laugh. “Hold up buddy. Do you think we’ve made a deal? You haven’t done anything to prove you are who you say you are. If you think I’m letting you walk off this ship or letting one of your associates onboard, you’re crazy.” 

“Tedious.” The Gardener sighed. “Wake your tree up. If he doesn’t agree with me, then you can kick my associate off your ship. The Groot can see; actually the Groot might even remember me. They have ancestral memory and we fought opposite one another in the Great War. Their race never really recovered either.”

“Why are you leaving?” Gamora asked. “If Peter is important to you, why delegate anything to an associate?”

“We want him to survive, and I’m dangerous to my children when they are this diffuse. Their nature is to reach out, and if they touch me before they’re ready, I can burn them up.” The Gardener shrugged his shoulders and shrugged out of his Terran disguise. He was light, yellow and mellow, just light, and then he wasn’t there anymore. 

Rocket frowned darkly, not lowering his weapon. “I really don’t like that guy.”

* * *

****

Ravager Fleet - 1988

* * *

A dirty eight year old crouched just outside the mess hall doors, listening to the strange sounds of a couple dozen aliens eating and talking. He could pick out a word here and there, largely thanks to the metal bit behind his right ear. Like alien Sesame Street, the bit constantly tried to teach him words. Probably because he was hovering at one, the bit kept yammering into his inner ear about doors. It wanted him to repeat the word to signify he understood, but he couldn’t afford to make any noise right now.

He caught a phrase that he knew, (Time to get back to it.) and slipped into the shadow of a beam. He held his breath, determined to achieve invisibility. Exiting by twos and threes, red-clad aliens poured from their cafeteria, none paying him any mind. Peter waited until the last of them had disappeared down the corridor. Silent as a mouse, he scurried forward. He paused at the doorway for a moment and under his breath, told the language bit what it wanted to hear from him. “It’s a door. I get it and I can say it. Door. Going through the door now. Stop harassing me about the door.”

It wouldn’t keep the bit silent for long, but the device usually at least waited a minute or two before trying to teach him a new word or phrase. Dirty plates and mostly empty bottles littered a pair of long tables. Like the half-starved scavenger that he was, Peter attacked the left overs, eating everything that remained before anyone made it around to clean the area.

The bit spoke up again with an unfamiliar phrase. Peter repeated the words dutifully between mouthfuls of strange alien food, but couldn’t figure out the last word. The first word was a pronoun, like someone. The last part was maybe a verb, but not one Peter knew. The language bit tended to keep on topic to what was actually happening, but Peter had already learned every verb associated with eating by now. He tried a couple of English phrases out randomly, “Someone is drinking? Someone is eating?” But he knew the Basic words for eating and it wasn’t that. Peter swallowed the chewy green fibrous scraps with some effort and glanced over his shoulder. A tall man with a scraggly head of shoulder length brown hair stood in the door Peter had only just slipped through. A terrifying mechanical eye tracked his movements. Acutely aware that he was being watched, Peter continued his language lesson, pretending he hadn’t seen. “Someone is here.” He repeated the phrase in English and Basic three times. 

The bit chirped that he had demonstrated comprehension.

Peter ran. Pushing his legs like pistons, he cut through the room, trying to put as much distance between himself and the mechanical eyed alien as he could. He pounded the trigger to open the far door, but nothing happened. Peter spun, looking for another exit, but there was only a long narrow room with too much furniture and a looming, possibly hungry, alien. In desperation, Peter dove under the nearest table and made himself as small as possible.

The alien fished him out by the shirt collar despite his best efforts, kicking and biting and holding onto the table itself. The alien spoke to him in rapid Basic, too fast for Peter to catch more than one or two words. It set him on his feet, and guiding him with a firm grip to his upper arm, the alien began handing him dirty plates. When the pile was almost past his eyes, the alien guided him to a slot in the wall where he made Peter dispose of the dirty dishes. The machine in the wall spat the plates out clean and steaming. The alien made Peter repeat the process until everything in the room had been cleaned. 

Then he retrieved two fresh, steaming plates of green and orange goop. He presented one to Peter along with a tall glass of brown liquid. The beverage tasted bitter but also made him feel buzzed and alert. 

“I’m Rak’isk, the cook. You understand?” 

Peter did understand that bit, but wasn’t sure what had come before. It seemed like maybe the cook wanted him to clean their cafeteria in exchange for his own food. After two weeks of hiding and scavenging every second of the day, the idea was tempting, but it didn’t fit with the plan. Peter was going to stay free, learn the language, and escape onto the first planet they stopped at. Then he was going to find an alien policeman and ask him to take him home, please.

Rak’isk tugged on Peter’s arm and led him through the door that Peter hadn’t been able to open earlier. He showed him the code for entry and led him between an odd array of alien mechanisms to an empty closet. The space was barely seven foot square, but it also had a code entry. “You can sleep here. Your space. I’ll teach you to set the code.”  
Peter thought about his precious, vulnerable possessions hidden in a service duct and he caved almost without thinking about it. The plan could be altered. He could help the cook, eat some regular meals and have a safe place to keep his things. He could still learn the language and he could still escape. A safe place to sleep didn’t mean he couldn’t find a policeman to help him when he escaped his kidnappers.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Rak’isk retrieved a bucket of soapy water and a brush. “You clean. I cook.”

* * *

Yondu wasn’t surprised when Peter escaped his new cell on the larger ship. Hell, he planned on it. If Peter was going to be a Ravager, he had to learn to survive and learning to survive on ship full of hostiles where you couldn’t speak the language would be a nice first lesson. Of course there were precautions taken. Yondu made sure the crew knew not to kill, maim, or eat the Terran. He was cargo, currency on legs, and you don’t mess with a Ravager’s pay day. He also set Kraglin to Terran watch, keeping tabs on the kid’s progress to make sure he didn’t damage the ship or die of starvation before he found a food source.

So far, the kid had done decent. According to Kraglin’s last report he had a nest in one of the deeper, harder to access maintenance shafts and was robbing the mess hall at least once a day. 

Survival, Yondu expected, but what he found at evening meal was strange enough to give him pause. The Terran was racing around the tables, collecting dirty dishes, wiping down tables. He even took orders from some of the crew and returned with their food. Yondu spotted Kraglin already eating and settled next to him. “How the Hell, did this get started?” 

The amused grin, vanished from Kraglin’s face and he swallowed quickly. “Captain, um, this started today. Rak’isk claimed the Terran and put him to work. He’s sleeping in one of the empty pantries now.”

Yondu grunted speculatively. “He seems awfully comfortable.” He took Kraglin’s half-empty plate and dropped it so that the metal clattered loudly and splatters of food flew across the floor. The room went ominously silent and everyone turned his way. “What’s a fella got to do to get some food in here?”

The skinny redhead peeked out of the kitchen and followed everyone’s gaze to Yondu. He visibly paused. The kid wasn’t an idiot. He remembered who snatched him up off Terra. Yondu could see the kid weighing his options, deciding if he should run, but Peter stepped forward and stood in front of the most feared man in the room. He barely trembled at all when he asked. “Blue or green?”

A quick glance at the food on his crew’s plates and he knew how Peter was handling orders with his limited Basic. Yondu grinned, showing off all his jagged sharp teeth. “Green, please.”

* * *

The Milano 2015

* * *

While Gamora, Rocket, and Drax discussed how to handle the alien that claimed to be Peter’s father and his proposal, Groot listened with half an ear. The rest of him was focused elsewhere. He knew from the moment Peter first became ill that they were missing something important. Peter was radiating energy on a spectrum quite familiar to the ancient tree.

Groot had to retreat from his physical form a step to get perspective, but almost immediately he could see what was wrong with Peter. His friend was becoming a Flare Devil, a race his kind had fought against in the last great war between the Celestials. 

The races that fell on opposite sides of the war were no more evil than one another. They were servants to their Celestials. They didn’t choose to fight any more than they chose to exist. As Groot remembered, Peter’s particular race could be stubborn and controlling and violent when provoked. Though being violent when provoked was really just good survival skills at the end of the day. He hadn’t thought there were any of them left, but there had to be one or there would not be a Peter to make two.

Groot’s response to learning his friend’s race wasn’t to reject him, but to pull him close and try to hide him from anyone else who might be able to see, anyone who might want to exploit or harm him at his time of transition. 

With Peter’s father’s arrival, it became clear that his efforts at hiding had failed, but the Gardener hadn’t lied on the surface of his requests. Peter did need to be consolidated into a more stable, circumscribed being. It was time to head back and help out. Groot loosened his hold on the bundle of energy and light that he had held close for the past few weeks, and slipped more completely back into his corporeal form.

Peter manifested on the Milano first as light and heat, but quickly he settled into the shape he was accustomed to, Terran and thirty-something with his signature red coat. Groot stepped from his pot and patted Peter on the head companionably. He rather enjoyed the shocked expressions on his other teammate’s faces. He had missed them, especially Rocket. “I am Groot.”

“Hey,” Peter added, eloquently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the bit about Basic being the standard galactic dialect comes across adequately. I just kind of left that to context. And I may have miscalculated how many chapters are left. Things keep shifting and taking too long. I’m through 1/3 of what I’d planned to have finished by this chapter. 
> 
> The chapters are not coming out weekly like they were. Just know that I’m not blocked. I’m writing every week. The last two weeks I’ve been working 12 hour days which means I’m only writing on my days off, which does slow me down a bit. I will finish this. The path is set out. It just may take a little longer than it was. 
> 
> Peace!


	11. Ties That Bind

  
**Chapter 11 – Ties That Bind**

* * *

**The Milano - 2015**  


* * *

  


Peter knew a few things about family; he’d belonged to three in his life. Despite his many and extremely diverse families, he hadn’t had too many homecomings. When Peter left a family behind, he didn’t often backtrack. So he didn’t have any expectations for the other guardians’ reception of him after his highly questionable vanishing act. 

Gamora inhaled so sharply she seemed to swell for a long moment. She had already shown a tendency to express her emotions as a strange, universal anger, and he half expected her to attack him, but she glared coldly at Rocket. “I told you he wasn’t dead.” 

“Yeah, I’m definitely not dead, sorry about the confusion.” Peter had just spent an enlightening couple of months cuddled to the side of their resident vegetation, a tree that apparently inhabited multiple existential planes that the rest of them couldn’t see. Well most of them couldn’t see, Peter blinked, but no he definitely could still see Groot radiating around the edges. Groot had had quite a lot to share about Peter’s father’s race; some very scary things. “How long was I gone?” 

“A couple of months,” Rocket said. “How you feeling?” 

Disjointed. Displaced. Untethered. “Okay, all things considered.” 

Apparently not satisfied with all the talking, Drax crossed the room and clutched Peter’s arm. He pulled him into a firm, manly hug. “My friend, Peter, I am very pleased to cease mourning for you.” 

“Thanks man,” Peter said. 

Mostly unnoticed until it was too late to escape his intentions, Groot skillfully herded Rocket and Gamora so that Drax’s man-hug became a large, awkward group hug. “I am Groot.” 

The awkward hug transitioned into something else so subtly that Peter couldn’t pinpoint what was happening at first. A flickering flame shimmered in each of his friends, a piece of Peter. They were him and he was them. Peter could use this inroad, he could control his friends, or even absorb them if he pushed. His light could overwhelm their own identities until eventually they would be a single being in five bodies. 

Peter pushed them away, physically and spiritually, more than a little horrified at the possibility. 

“We need to talk about boundaries, just until I get this whole, being of energy thing sorted out.” Peter could still perceive the piece of himself in his friends and wished he knew how to carve it out of them. They hadn’t asked to have a Peter parasite infestation. “I swear I’m not trying to use it to affect any of you, but I’ve attached to all of you. I don’t think it’s new, but I’m way more aware of it now and I don’t have proper control of it.” 

“You think you’re dangerous to us?” Gamora asked. The Gardener had all but said that Peter was influencing them instinctually, her in particular. “I don’t have any sensation of being controlled or manipulated.” 

“Oh, I’m not manipulating anyone on purpose. Think of it like osmosis, too much time with me and you start drifting into me and vice versa. It can get muddled,” Peter said, with a long knowing look at Groot. “It might be best if I left you all planet-side while I figure this out.” 

“I am Groot!” 

Peter flinched back from Groot’s adamant statement, not the three simple words but all the meaning swirling around those words. A reassuring flash of warm orange faded to red and punctuated with purple. Peter was still reasoning out the meanings behind the flashes when Rocket started chuckling. 

“Well I guess that’s that. Groot says he can keep things stable until you learn to control yourself. If Groot says he’s got it, I trust him. Stop being all dramatic. No one here is afraid of you and your mystical frick’in powers.” Rocket scampered up onto Groot’s shoulder. 

Gamora nodded. “We were just discussing your father, and whether to trust him. He knew you were with Groot. He seemed to think you were in some danger.” 

“Sounds like my dad, never here to answer my questions in person. He didn’t try his Jedi mind tricks on you, did he?” Peter glanced nervously at Groot. “You could tell if he was controlling anyone, right big guy?” 

“I am Groot.” 

“Jedi what?” Rocket glared suspiciously down at Groot. “And you must have misspoken. I ain’t nobody’s property.” 

“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” Peter said. 

“Really, you speak Groot now? Cause I’ve been communicating with Groot a long time and I could swear he just said we already **belonged** to you.” Rocket showed all his teeth in a full aggressive snarl of a smile. 

Gamora crossed her arms over her chest, more concerned by Peter’s pained expression than Rocket’s accusation. “You know Peter, and he doesn’t consider us property. Let him explain.” 

“Of course I don’t consider you all property. As Groot explained it to me, the energy I’ve left in you is a type of claim for my father’s, for my race. I didn’t do it on purpose, and as soon as I figure out how to control it, I’ll take it out of you.” Peter grimaced. “On the positive side, it kept my father out. He can’t claim or control any of you as long as you’re carting around my energy.” 

“I am Groot.” 

Rocket finally settled, his ruffled fur drooping. “You start trying to control me, even a little, and I’ll show you what I do to people who think they can own me.” 

“Peter is an honorable man. He would not treat his friends so poorly,” Drax said. 

Rocket open his mouth to point out that until very recently, their honorable captain was a frick’in Ravager, but he didn’t really think Peter was out to control any of them. The whole situation just hit too close to his time as an experiment, when controlling him was a stated research goal for his tormentors. Rocket wasn’t too keen on anyone having that much power over him. “Is Groot teaching you how to recall your energy?” Rocket asked instead. 

“Yeah, not exactly.” Peter took a seat, his shoulders slumped. “Groot knows how to contain, kill, and maim me. His race and mine are age old enemies. He doesn’t know how to train me. That should relieve you though, Rocket. If I go back on my word and start purposefully manipulating any of you, Groot knows how to put me down.” 

“No one is putting anyone down,” Gamora snapped. “Though I am at a bit of a loss for what to do now. Your father is sending an emissary. We can wait for them, or since you seem to be fine, we could just leave and continue on as we have.” 

“I am Groot.” His simple statement solemn and adamant, Groot shook his head. Rocket’s ears drooped slightly and Peter looked away. 

“We need the emissary’s help. Groot doesn’t know how to get me stabilized. I’m inhabiting several places at once and without help I won’t last. Osmosis, remember, I’m fading away, dispersing into the lives around me. Death without all the dying.” Peter gestured ineffectually. “I wish you could hear it the way Groot says it. It’s more correct, more complete anyway.” 

“We wait for the emissary then,” Drax said with a simple nod. 

* * *

**Ravager Fleet—1989**

* * *

Between the language bit, whispering in his ear and the pirates chattering over their daily meals, Peter mastered oral communication in his new world over the course of a long, painful year. The bit had only just begun teaching him to write in Basic, but Peter felt confident he had the words he would need for his escape plan. He just had to find the right opportunity. 

Dar, the one-eyed cook, filled a half dozen plates with thick cut tentacle steak and gravy, tasting more like roast beef than anything that shade of purple ought, it was one of Peter’s favorites. Like the expert waiter/slave he had become, he balanced the plates and distributed them to the waiting Ravagers. He scampered through the aliens, cleaning up empty tables, never slowing long enough that anyone with interest in him might have a hope of getting a hand on him. Once having every orifice sniffed by a curious Banerian was enough for a lifetime. 

Looping safely back to the kitchen, Peter pulled out five clean plates. “Three tentacles, two claws, and the bridge crew just started cycling.” 

“Good, good, almost done then.” Dar spared Peter a glance. “We’re docking today.” 

“I know.” Unspoken between them were Yondu’s rules. Docking meant Peter would be confined to quarters, locked in until they returned to deep space. “Maybe, if you’re going off ship, I could come? It’s not like we’re docking on Terra. Where would I go?” 

Dar frowned, not pausing in his work. 

“I can barely speak. How much trouble could I cause? I would do whatever you told me, no questions asked. Technically, we wouldn’t even have to ask Yondu for permission since he put you in charge of me ages ago.” 

“Service,” Dar said. He filled the last plate. 

“It’s been a year.” Peter rapped his knuckles on the nearest wall. “I’ve been inside this ship for a year. I just want to go outside.” 

“Service.” Dar thrust two of the waiting plates into Peter’s hands. “Service. Service. The bridge crew is cycling, service.” 

Lapsing into English, Peter muttered to himself. “ _Service? More like slavery._ ” He stacked the plates on his arms, and trudged toward the dining room. 

“I’ll think about it,” Dar said. “Now scamper.” 

* * *

**Not far from the Milano 2015**

* * *

Taking on a form always started with the face. From race to race, it was the facial proportions that had to be perfect if you wanted to pass for that species. The Gardener had given her the basic proportions of a Terran and showed her some memories of his experiences with them. He didn’t care that Terran was a drastic change from the form of her birth, or that managing to assume that shape would be both difficult and disorienting. A familiar, proportionately Terran face, could only increase the Heir’s comfort, and his comfort mattered more than hers. 

Resolutely she constructed her face and form, settling into the bipedal flesh-mask required of her. Almost as an afterthought she added coverings to the flesh, clothes and shoes and long blondish locks of hair. You would think, wearing a new body and face that she would stumble forward at least a few steps, but she stepped seamlessly into the world as though she were born to the odd, stick like legs she now sported. The Gardener sent her because she was the best of her kind, and she was not planning to let him down. 

She strode forward into the Milano’s cargo hold, into the web of the heir. His power dripped from the walls, radiated from the crew. She had been sent to protect him, train him and put him back together. She had no attention for the biologicals, their greetings, questions, or threats. She observed the energy matrix awed at its resonating simple strength, but when the Heir spoke she answered his question without hesitation, choosing her name the same way the Gardener taught her to. 

“Are you the emissary? You really ought to speak up before Rocket decides to shoot you.” 

“You may call me simply Teacher. The Gardener sent me to help you.” 

The furred creature pumped his weapon and it began to whine. “It’s customary to ask permission to come aboard a vessel, Teach. You ever been shot by a thousand gigawatt pulse cannon? People don’t follow common courtesy, they accidentally get shot all the time.” 

“Let’s not shoot the nice lady who’s going to help me out here.” Peter stepped smoothly between Rocket and Teacher, his smile conciliatory. “I’m Peter.” Turning to each of his companions he rapidly went through introductions. Ending with his most charming grin, Peter asked, “So, are you like me then?” 

“Not exactly like you, but we’re similar.” She gestured vaguely at Rocket and his gun. “If Peter’s existence could be measured in wattage, we’d use gigawatts. I’m more of a kilowatt kind of girl, otherwise we’re identical.” 

Judging by Drax’s frown, he was trying very hard to process the metaphor. “Peter is not a girl. How can you be identical? You are obviously different.” 

“Quaint,” Teacher said, the word dripping with disdain. “I don’t think I know your species, Mr. Drax. It wasn’t my intention to confuse you. I spoke in metaphor and generalities. Forgive me.” 

Peter had seen people bristle before, physically communicating their annoyance and offence with crossed arms or narrowed eyes, but his new perceptions ramped up that sensation. He could see Gamora’s anger like red spikes of light, Drax’s confusion and embarrassment leaked out in a gray yellow pool. 

“I’m not too impressed with your family so far Pete.” Rocket let his gun drop, shaking his head. “Between your father and your cousin, I think you get your personality from your mother. Bunch of arrogant, assholes.” 

“I am Groot.” 

Rocket rolled his eyes at the tree. “Yeah, maybe we need their help, but I don’t have to like them.” 

“I’m here to help Peter, not make friends,” Teacher agreed, “The Gardener is sending funds to finance our trip. As soon as those funds arrive, we should embark for Earth.” 

* * *

**Ravager Fleet—1989**

* * *

If he thought Dar would take him off ship just because he’d asked, Peter was destined for disappointment. Like any time they docked, Peter was confined to a different pantry and locked safely in for the duration. But he hadn’t really expected to be allowed off ship, and he’d planned accordingly. A year working under Dar had taught Peter more than the language or how to balance half a dozen plates on his arms. Dar only ever used three passcodes on a rotating basis, and Peter officially knew them all. 

Once the kitchen had gone quiet, Peter let himself out. He carefully stowed his possessions, his Walkman (though the batteries were long dead) and the still-unopened present from his mother, the only two things he couldn’t live without. 

Now he wasn’t foolish enough to stroll down the main corridors and out the Eclector’s primary exit. Peter made a circuitous route through the maintenance shafts, only emerging when the exit and freedom were a few feet away. 

His first experience of an alien world, wasn’t especially magical. Grinkle 5 was dirty and crowded and stunk like fish left out in the sun. Peter kept his head down and didn’t stop moving or scanning the street signs. He had memorized the characters in Basic for police, and his entire plan was to find them. 

If he told the police his story, surely they could help him and send him home. When he spotted the characters at long last, Peter could have flown he was so hopeful. Inside the building, aliens swarmed. Different species mingled; some were restrained while others were doing the restraining. He walked to a shiny gray counter, and caught the eye of a blue-furred alien in a crisp white uniform. “Hi, my name is Peter and I need help. I’m Terran and some Ravagers kidnapped me. The kept me for a whole year, then I escaped and now I need help getting home.” 

“What’s a Terran?” The alien frowned down at him. “Why would Ravagers kidnap a scrawny thing like you and then keep you for a whole year?” 

“I don’t know. Can you help me?” Peter asked, suddenly unsure what would happen next. 

“Officer Fio, I have a lost Terran child here that escaped his kidnappers, want to take this one?” 

A new alien, also covered in blue fur took him by the arm and sniffed him, in a long disturbing way. “Yeah, I’ll take him. Ten percent?” 

“Of course, shop him around some. Never heard of a Terran, but he must have some value or Ravagers wouldn’t have wasted food on him for a standard year.” 

It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines that these were not the helpful police officers, Peter had hoped for. He tried to pull his arm free. He stomped the officer’s foot, bit and screamed but it took the burly alien pitifully little effort to shackle him wrist and feet. Ignominiously he even fit Peter with a bright red muzzle that cradled his head and jaws and filled his mouth with a rubbery substance. “If you act like that during auction, the only people who bid on you will be the ones who are looking for something new and different to eat.” 

His words came out garbled and indistinct around the muzzle, but Peter shouted at his new captors. “But you’re the police.” 

“Eh but this is a penal settlement. Law is an interpretive affair here,” the first alien explained. “We try to keep the interpretation profitable.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the protracted delay in posting. I had a disagreement with the cable company and turned my internet off a year ago. Read on if you want to hear why CableOne got fired. 
> 
> You see, I decided that $120 was too much to spend on TV and internet. So I switched to internet only. It was supposed to cost around $80. My next bill was $250. As you can imagine, I had a small apoplectic fit. After calling the cable company, they assured me that it was an error and my internet had been switched to a business account accidentally, but they would fix it for me. They wouldn’t refund me any of my money, but the problem had been handled going forward. Except they charged me $250 the next month too. I calmly fired them and will never use their services again. It took a year, but AT&T Uverse arrived in my neighborhood, and I’m back online. I suppose I could have found some WiFi and kept posting, but I’m a busy lady and never really made it to the library. Not having internet changes how you use your computer. Need to do something like pay a bill or check email, you use your phone, and you just stop turning the computer on, and you stop writing fan fiction :/
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Peace!


	12. Chapter 12 - Sufficiency

  
****

* * *

**The Milano – 2015**

* * *

The Milano didn’t have many quasi-private areas. Like most m-ships, they weren’t intended to house more than a three man crew, and they weren’t intended for long term habitation. Adding another person hadn’t caused a scramble for a new bunk space though. Teacher had made herself at home in Quill’s quarters and hadn’t emerged for food, the latrine, or anything else as far as Gamora could tell. “Always with the women,” she muttered to herself. It was just typical that the Gardener’s mysterious emissary would be a buxom blond creature that liked to sleep in the same bunk as her student. 

It wouldn’t even bother her that Peter was sealed up in a cramped room with the woman nine hours out of ten, but in the rare moment he emerged, he wasn’t himself. Gamora had returned his tapes, expecting Peter to resume playing them as usual, but there was no music, and there was no laughter. 

Drax settled next to her, shoulder to shoulder, facing the closed door to Peter’s quarters. “Are we planning to interfere?” he asked. 

“No.” Gamora frowned, without turning to face her friend. With anyone else she would need to see a facial expression to be sure whether they were serious, but Drax always said what he meant. “Something is not right with this. Peter is off, but it is not time to break the door down.” 

“He is very quiet,” Drax agreed. “When will it be time to break the door down?” 

Before Gamora could respond, the door cracked open and Peter emerged, his face pale and his hair tousled. She considered busying herself so that their scrutiny would be less obvious, but Drax didn’t even shuffle. He wouldn’t understand her behavior, and maybe some open scrutiny would make Peter talk to them. Who would have thought the day would come that they had to coax their chatty Terran to talk? 

Peter opened his mouth and closed it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and returned their stares with a sheepish smile. “We’re getting close to Terra.” 

“Your home world,” Gamora nodded. 

“The planet of outlaws,” Drax added. 

“I don’t remember it like I should.” Peter took one of the seats at their table, and his smile slipped away into a sad, vague expression. 

“You were a child. It’s normal to forget some details,” Gamora said. 

“No, this is different. Those pieces that aren’t here are siphoning me away. Teacher seems to think I’ll be okay as soon as we pick up the part of me on Terra, more stable, more complete. She says it’s natural. We’ve only been a team for a short time. I’m the center, the most complete version of me, but my roots in other places had longer to grow and are stronger; they’re pulling me into them. Teacher and Groot have been helping keep me together, keep me here.” 

“I do not think they are succeeding,” Drax said, utterly sincerely. 

“Me either,” Peter said. 

The Gardener’s emissary and Groot were helping, doing something while the rest of them got to quietly wait and watch. Well, Gamora wasn’t a sit and watch kind of girl. She solved problems. “I know what you need.” Gamora strode across the corridor. She selected a mix tape and popped it into the player. She turned the volume up and smiled at the familiar alien rhythms. Only once the music was playing did she realize that the room was empty of the blond emissary who should have been there. “Where exactly is Teacher?” 

“Out here and in there. I told you, she’s helping glue me together. She’s not bothering to manifest corporeally at the moment. Other priorities,” Peter said. 

Normally Peter couldn’t help himself when his music played. He at least nodded his head, or tapped his feet when he didn’t lip synch and dance. It was who he was, but he sat quietly with Drax, unmoved by the sounds vibrating his vessel. “If your Teacher isn’t manifesting herself at the moment, what have you been doing in that room for hours and hours?” Gamora asked. 

“Nothing? Drifting away.” 

“Well that stops today.” Gamora pulled Peter to his feet, moving to the music she had turned on, encouraging him to follow her lead. Gradually, hesitant head bobs and feet shuffling shifted to more confident movements. Before her eyes, Peter seemed to grow more solid, more alive, color returning to his face and hands. He smiled, a real expression this time. “What is a Pina Colada, anyway?” Gamora asked. 

For a moment he faltered, unable to answer, then his smile widened. “It’s a Terran beverage, fruity, alcoholic. I’ve never had one. We should have one when we get to Terra.” 

“As many times as you have played this song, we most definitely should.” 

Rocket poked his head out of a maintenance duct, his regular sleeping hole. He bit back the urge to critique the miniature dance party, though the lame dancing made it hard. He had heard the conversation from the beginning, and he knew exactly how much trouble Groot was having holding onto their comrade. If lame-ass dancing helped Peter not disperse into the ether, then he could dance and Rocket would keep his mouth shut for it. 

* * *

**Grinkle 5 – Trading Outpost 1989**

* * *

Hands and feet bound, muzzle half-choking him, Peter couldn’t sit still. Knees pulled up to his chin, he rocked and he thought. There were other aliens confined around him, speaking in rapid, heavily accented basic, so garbled by their own restraints that Peter couldn’t understand one word in three, but from what he had picked out, they were mostly praying or begging. 

Peter flexed his hands in his restraints. They weren’t much different than the ones the Ravagers had used on him when they were still trying to keep him in a cell. They weren’t really designed for humans and they didn’t fit snugly. “I can slip these,” Peter told himself. He just had to wait for the right moment. He had to make it count. 

They started moving them around, from one holding cell to another, shifting closer to the loud room, the auction room probably? His current holding cell wasn’t powered with force fields, it was sealed with bars, bars that seemed maybe wide enough spaced for a skinny human to squeeze through. Peter narrowed his hands, leveraging the wrist restraints until they were literally cutting into his skin. He bit the odd rubbery material of the muzzle, determined to free his hands if it stripped all the skin off. 

His heart soared as his left hand came free. With his hands loose, deactivating the ankle restraints was simple. Then the muzzle didn’t want to come off. Rather than waste a lot of time fighting with the device, he focused on his exit. Leading with his shoulder, Peter pushed determinedly through the bars. For a terrifying moment he thought his head was going to get hung up at the ears, but he made it through. The other captives didn’t seem to have noticed his escape, and Peter was careful not to attract their attention. 

A smart kid would slide into the nearest shadow and creep out the first window he found, but Peter couldn’t leave yet, not without his stuff. Besides, no one had ever accused him of being smart. Restraints hanging from his right wrist and muzzle on his face, Peter knew he’d need a disguise to search out his property and not end up back in a cage. 

There were lots of goods awaiting auction scattered among the cages, most useless, but Peter found a mask with red eyes that concealed the muzzle nicely. He tucked the dangling wrist restraint into his sleeve and tried to move like he belonged here. Call it dumb luck or instinct, but Peter mingled seamlessly with the aliens around him. It helped that a large portion were smaller than the average Ravager. Between the prisoners and the buyers and everyone else talking at once, Peter couldn’t follow any one line of conversation, but no one was grabbing him or even really looking at him. 

He felt bad, walking past the other prisoners without even trying to help them, but he had spent a year with the Ravagers and he had learned a thing or two about survival. First you had to take care of yourself, and if you were small and outnumbered, sometimes that was all you could do. Quietly if not calmly, Peter slipped from one room to the next, searching for his things. 

If he hadn’t been muzzled, he might have blown his cover when he found his bag just outside. His red knapsack was barely visible in a refuse pile. Peter tugged it out, taking a moment to brush away a load of gray-green slime. A quick inventory confirmed that the corrupt police officers hadn’t kept any of his valuables. Peter hugged his bag and his things for a long relieved moment, and then he hit the street, anxious to get back to the Eclector, and the safety of the captors he knew. If he was lucky, they hadn’t even missed him.

* * *

**Terran Orbit – 2015**

* * *

The planet Earth didn’t look particularly distinctive from space, not to someone as well traveled as any of the aliens aboard the Milano. Another water-rich world that refracted blue, a single moon without any special structures or even a space port to make it distinctive, Earth wasn’t the least bit special, not from space anyway. Slipping through the interdiction monitoring meant that they couldn’t just zip down to the surface either. Their approach had to be timed and measured. They had to get in and back out in a matter a few short hours. 

“I know it doesn’t look like much up here, but it’s a nice planet up close.” Peter kept a hand on the yoke, preparing to move into the upcoming monitoring gap. “Just so everyone is prepared. Earth isn’t alien friendly. They’re more likely to try and dissect an alien than try to communicate with one. So, be careful and don’t be seen.” 

“I’d like to see a humie try to dissect me. I’d dissect them,” Rocket muttered. 

“How about nobody dissects anybody? Just keep a low profile is all I’m saying. We don’t want to be caught breaking interdiction. Timing is going to be tight.” Peter cut a glance at Gamora, Drax, and Groot. It was probably just as well that the concentrated bit of him on Earth was hanging out at a cabin in the woods with one other human. They were going to blend in about as well as Twisted Sister at an Amish barn raising. “Brace yourselves. We’re going down.”

* * *

**The Eclector – 1989**

* * *

Secreted away in his safe, secluded pantry, Peter tried to find a way to disengage the muzzle he had been fitted with. His escape attempt appeared to have gone unnoticed, but he couldn’t explain away the bright red device holding his jaws together. He heard Dar clanking pots and his heart thudded in his chest. He was going to be found out as soon as the pantry door opened. In blind desperation, he pulled his new mask on and waited, not sure what he thought hiding the muzzle with more contraband was going to do.

What if the Ravagers made good on their threat to eat him now that he’d almost escaped? What if they decided to sell him like the police officers had? The door opened, but instead of Dar, a jagged-toothed, blue-faced grin greeted him. Yondu chuckled and Peter’s stomach clenched. “Well boyo, you had yourself a little adventure. See you came back and with a bit of loot too.” Yondu snatched Peter by his collar and dragged him out into the open. A single look from Yondu, and Dar fled the kitchen, leaving them alone. 

Yondu removed the mask, fiddled with it a bit and it folded to a tiny metallic disk. Seeing Peter’s muzzled countenance, he laughed again. “When I pry this here muzzle off your face, you’re gonna tell me why I got a Furmian auctioneer screaming in my cargo bay, looking for a Terran thief that stole an ancient’s survival mask from his private collection, yeah?” 

It was hard to tell from Yondu’s tone if he was angry or amused, and Peter fought hard to keep his fear from overwhelming him. 

“Now this muzzle here is tricky. It’s a bixa parasite, alive and loving its spot on your face. You’re lucky I know how to make it turn a loose.” Yondu upended a bottle of strong smelling liquor over Peter’s head. The muzzle literally squealed as it released. “Now you owe me an explanation boyo. Don’t you dare lie.” 

A cantankerous pride that felt almost alien welled up in him, and Peter wanted to prove he could lie to Yondu. He flexed is jaw slowly. “I was tired of not seeing anything but this ship, so I broke out and saw a little of the station. Some guys tried to sell me, but I got away and stole the mask from them.” 

Yondu shook his head. “Not a bad lie, but not the whole truth. I told you not to lie to me.” His smile faded back. “We picked you up for extra protein, not knowing you weren’t livestock back on Terra. You start causing more trouble than you worth, start making a habit of defying my orders and lying to me, and we’ll just eat you for dinner and be done with it. Understand me, boy?” 

“Yes sir,” Peter said, oddly reassured by Yondu’s familiar threat and back handed compliments. 

“Truth, now, since you don’t want to tell it all, is that you went running to the authorities, tried to get help to get you back home,” Yondu prompted. “How’d that work out for you? You learn anything?” 

“You know how it worked out. They tried to sell me,” Peter said, “But I escaped.” He left unsaid that he was going to escape the Ravagers too, eventually, as soon as he figured out another plan. 

“Nah, you didn’t learn nothing. Ain’t nowhere for you to go.” Yondu, shuffled the metal disk that had been a mask between his fingers. “You a thief now, recorded, certified. Here real soon, you gonna learn to be a good thief or you gonna be dinner. Say your fare thee wells to Dar. Time you started learning a proper trade.” Yondu tossed the silver disk to Peter. “Man ought to hang on to his first score. Survival mask like that is valuable. You’d best not show it around till you have the skills to protect it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter has spent the entire fic just about in crisis. It’s sort of the plot, but in a way it’s monotonous. There’s no way around it without making this story way longer than I want it to be. An arc between dissolution of Peter’s flesh and discovering that he was going to dissipate without further intervention would break things up, but I didn’t take that road. I don’t want to write those 3-4 chapters. 
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> Next chapter is planned to be all Earth, no time shuffles, just Peter and Peter and friends. It’s a pickle of a chapter. Not posting it until I’m happy with it, so it may be awhile. :)


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